


E. Vess, Correspondent

by jadrea



Series: Vess 'Verse [1]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Drabble, Family, Gen, Genderqueer Character, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Some angst, episodic, pronouns are hard, wow another thinly veiled self-insert fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24776329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: A nameless newcomer arrives at MASH 4077 and is tight-lipped about their origins. Set around Season 3. (Written April 2020)
Series: Vess 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841962
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Quitting Time

"-came in without dogtags, I can't find a name."

"Fine, a Jane Doe, put her on the table."

"Yes, Doctor."

Her vision was glazed, flashes of light shocking her into semi-consciousness. A split second of clarity took in a haggard face leaning over her before everything vanished.

Hours later, with an aching shoulder and a head that felt like it was full of cotton, she pried her eyes open and found a set of hands pushing her back against the pillow. "Easy there, just lay back."

A cup of water appeared at her lips and, as she struggled to swallow, a voice, which she assumed belonged to the hands, asked, "How do you feel?"

"I've been better." Her voice sounded hollow to her ears. "Where am I?"

"MASH 4077." The nurse leaned forward with a reassuring smile, "My name's Baker. We couldn't find your tags, mind telling me your name?"

"Vess."

"Alright, Vess," Baker made a note on a clipboard at the end of the bunk. "You'll be here for just a few days with that shoulder, then we'll be able to ship you out."

"Back to the front?" Her voice came harsher than intended.

Baker looked momentarily taken aback. "Back with the 306th, I'm not sure of their orders-I can check with Colonel Blake. That is your unit, isn't it?"

"I-uh, yeah. Yes, ma'am."

Nurse Baker managed to conceal the doubt on her face with a smile. "Let me bring you some food, hm?"

She stood and glanced around, snagging a passing man by the elbow. "Klinger, where's the Major who was brought in with the last round of casualties?"

"Bed 6," he replied. "But he's down for the count. Nearly lost a leg to shrapnel."

"Rats," Baker said. She waved off his confused look, "Just had a question about their orders."

Klinger shrugged and continued on his way.

Pausing at the end of the Major's cot to check his chart, Baker glanced back to see Vess slump back against the pillow, glazed eyes fixed on the filthy tent ceiling.

The next day passed in a blur of casualties, it was nearly dark by the time Baker had a chance to pull the company clerk aside. "Radar, hear anything?"

"Uh, not yet, but lines are a little busy right now with the war and, uh, all."

"Get back to me when you've heard, please."

Henry Blake entered the room, rubbing his eyes. "That's the last of 'em for now. Radar, I'll be in my office," Stifling a yawn, he continued on to his office, "if you need me, write whatever it is down on a sheet of paper and throw it into the minefield."

"Colonel," Baker called after him, "can I talk to you?"

"Please, no more casualties, Nurse, I'm beat."

"No, no, sir, it's about one that was just brought in without tags."

"From an aid station?"

"That's just it, Colonel, I don't know. She came in with the boys of the 306th, straight from the front. She seems...out of place."

Blake poured himself a glass of bourbon and swallowed half of it before turning to face her. His eyebrows were a solid, furrowed line. "What?"

"I can't explain it, sir, it's-"

The swinging doors behind her burst open. "Baker, HQ on the line-"

"Hold it, who ordered that?"

"I asked him to make the call, sir," Baker interjected, "I wanted to track down which unit this Nurse came from."

"Didn't she come with the 306th?"

"Well, yes-"

"Then maybe that's where she belongs."

"Sir-" Radar attempted, from the door.

"I don't think so, Colonel, she seemed all out of sorts when I told her she'd be shipping back out."

"You'd be out of sorts, too, Baker, if you'd just had half a junkyard dug out of you."

"Sir-"

"What, Radar?" Blake snapped.

"It's just that, uh, I got HQ on the line and, uh, there's, uh-"

"Snap to it, Radar, my bourbon's evaporating."

"There's no Vess in the 306th. Or any nearby aid stations that I could find."

Baker clutched her clipboard to her chest. Blake downed his bourbon and reached for the gin.

"I suppose you're sure she's not, uh, local?"

Baker nodded, "As far as I could tell."

"Then, she's, uhm, she's a, uhm, she's-" the Colonel splashed another finger in his glass. "What is she? Are you sure, Radar?" Blake grasped for straws, "I mean, it's not-I-are you sure?"

Radar's mouth hung open, his eyes bugged like a beached fish.

"Maybe she's a UN envoy?"

"At the front?" Baker shook her head.

"No," Blake agreed, "They tend to keep envoys in Tokyo or some other such back lines."

"Then-?"

"Maybe we should ask Vess. Radar-!" The clerk was already out the door. In a moment, he was back. "Uh, sir, she's-"

The sun cast deepening shadows as the woman walked, unnoticed, across the compound. Mostly unnoticed, that is.

A few yards away, a furious, sharp-faced man pointed. "You!"

Seeing no one else nearby, Vess assumed the worst. "Me?"

"Yes, you–stand at attention when addressing an officer!"

"Sure thing, Chief." She made a half-hearted attempt to puff out her chest as he stormed over.

"You will address me as Major, nurse, what are you doing out of uniform?"

"I never received mine in the mail. Just an IOU signed 'Uncle Sam.'"

"Don't get smart with me."

"I could never."

The man bristled. "What's your designation, soldier?"

"Five-foot-eight."

"What?!"

"Alright, alright-five-seven-and-a-half. But don't tell anyone."

"I ought to write you up for insubordination!"

"Don't you need to be my superior to do that?"

"I am your superior!"

Vess looked him up and down. "Are you?"

"That's it," he snatched her arm, digging fingertips into her unbandaged shoulder and ignoring her wince, "I'm taking you to the Colonel."

"Major Burns, sir-" A short, stocky man jogged across the compound, holding his green rag hat on with one hand and ducking against the wind, "Sir, one of the wounded-oh." He caught sight of Vess. "You found 'em."

"Out of my way, Radar, I'm taking this nurse to Colonel Blake to report her for insubordination."

"Oh, sir, he-that's-"

"Enough, Corporal!" Burns marched Vess in the direction of the main building of the camp, a long, low tent with swinging doors that rattled in the gale.

Radar huffed a sigh before hurrying to catch up. Once inside, he ducked ahead to open the door as the burly man behind a desk lifted his cigar from his lips and began, "RAD-I don't know how you-"

"Here she is, sir, Major Burns found her."

"Colonel, this nurse-"

"She's not a nurse, Frank, at least not that we can tell." The Colonel turned to Vess as the latter wrenched her arm from the Major's grasp. "Have a seat, missy, I've got some questions."

Vess considered a retort, thought better of it, and sat.

"Now," the Colonel crossed his arms, "who exactly-"

"Colonel," Burns interjected, "I want to-"

"Frank, I couldn't care less about what you want. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to conduct an investigation-now, miss, who-"

The doors burst open again and a woman in blood-stained scrubs entered, pulling off her mask to shout, "What's this I hear about one of my patients being questioned?"

"One of your patients-this is a hospital, Houlihan. Remember the custody deal? The patients belong to all of us." The Colonel reinserted the cigar into his mouth and took a seat. "Now," he spoke around a puff of smoke, "I'm trying to ascertain-"

"Nice one, Henry," a dark-haired man entered behind the woman, himself followed by another man who pulled off a mask to reveal a sideways grin.

"'Ascertain,'" the grinning man repeated, "that's gotta be a dozen points."

"Oh, at least," the first replied, helping himself to the liquor cabinet behind the Colonel's desk as the owner of said desk threw his hands up.

"Pierce, McIntyre, what are you doing?"

The woman answered in their stead, "I asked them here, sir, officers should be involved in the search for a missing patient and, as the patient has been found and is now being questioned, officers should be present for said questioning."

"She was just found, how'd you hear about it already?"

"What she lacks in grace she makes up with pristine ears," remarked the curly-haired man, identified as McIntyre, from his seat by the windows.

"Fine, fine, everybody just sit down."

"Here, Margaret," the dark-haired man, Pierce, pulled an unoccupied chair from the desk and patted his knee. "We're short a chair, but never fear, there's always a seat for you here."

"A regular Wordsworth," Margaret spat, "I'd rather run through the minefield."

"People!" Blake shouted, "I'm trying to conduct an investigation here. Now, as I was asking-uhm-I was asking-Radar, what was I asking?"

"Who she was, sir."

"Oh, yes," he gestured to Vess with the smoking end of his cigar, "Who is she? I mean-who are you?"

"Vess, sir."

"Yes, that's what you told Nurse Baker, but, see, we can't seem to find anybody by that name."

"Au contraire, sir, you managed to find me, that should count for something."

The two men by the window exchanged an amused look.

Burns, standing by the door, spluttered, enraged, "This is exactly the reason I want to file charges, this lip of hers, I want it in her record permanently-"

"If you can find her record, Frank, you can write it in yourself. Fact, I'll be damn impressed."

Burns fell uncharictaristically silent. Margaret spoke up, "What?"

"Aside from the fact she's sitting right smack in front of us," Blake's eyes narrowed, "this Vess doesn't seem to exist."

The office fell silent. Vess adjusted the sling holding her shoulder in place and winced again. She felt the weight of a half-dozen pairs of eyes.

"Well, have anything to say for yourself?" The Colonel asked.

She shrugged. "Nice place you got here."

"Let me rephrase: I'm about to call the MPs in here to arrest you, there any reason I shouldn't?"

Vess squarely met his gaze and said nothing.

"Turn out your pockets." Blake set his cigar down in the coffee mug that served as an ashtray and got to his feet. "Radar, get-"

"-the MPs, yes, sir." The young man scurried out the door.

"Come on, up," Blake snapped and, out of habit, Vess got to her feet. The Colonel pointed to his desk. "Empty your pockets," he repeated. When Vess made no move to do so, he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, "'Less you want me to do it-"

She gave him a sharp look and complied, using her free hand to pull scraps of paper, a hankerchief, a few spent bullet casings, and a half-melted chocolate bar from her trousers. Blake sifted through the pile on his desk, fishing out a paper that caught his eye. Radar returned with the officers, and the Colonel waved them off. "What's this?"

Pierce stood and peered over Blake's shoulder. "A press pass?"

"You a correspondent, Vess?"

"Sure, sir."

"Well, why didn't you say so?" Blake's shoulders slumped in exasperation. "What outlet?"

"W-LOC, sir, out of D.C."

"'LOC'?" Pierce frowned. "The Library of Congress?"

"Yes, sirs, they're expanding into print and radio. Tired of the same old books." Vess' voice wasn't rushed and she appeared calm, though her mind was racing. "Might I get an interview?"

"Oh, ah, well-" Blake seemed to be struck bashful, "With little ol' me? Gee, I don't know."

"C'mon, Henry," Pierce said, pointing, "See that seal? Looks like it was made with lipstick, not candlewax."

Blake prodded at the official-looking seal and grimaced when part of it rubbed off on his fingertip. "Where'd you get this?"

"A very convincing MacArthur impersonator issued it to me at a bar," Vess replied, "I thought it was the real thing. Serves me right, I'm too trusting."

"You could get in serious trouble for impersonating a correspondent, kid."

"What, it's not a crime," Vess bristled at being 'kid'ed, "The First Amendment and all."

"This is wartime, things are different."

"Oh, that's right-you use the Constitution to stuff the cannons, how could I forget."

Blake threw the paper back on his desk. "Take her to the prisoner's tent, give me a minute to figure out what to do with her."

Before the MPs could move, the already crowded office welcomed another visitor: a limping man with wild eyes and a bright white bandage wrapped around his head. "They said she was in here-oh, there you are!" He did his best to snap to attention, sluggish from the morphine.

"Major?" Margaret grabbed his shoulder to steady him, only to find herself brushed aside as the man lurched forward to vigorously shake Vess' hand.

Vess couldn't hide her surprise as she suddenly found herself on her feet, free arm pumped up and down.

"Thank you, thank you," the man was saying, "We're forever in your debt."

"What the hell is going on?" Blake asked, "You should be in bed, soldier."

"This is Major Dobbs, Colonel, from the 306th," Margaret said quickly, as the Major continued.

"This man saved our lives, Colonel," Dobbs didn't relinquish his grip on Vess, who found herself struggling to stay upright with his full weight on her right side. "Weren't for him, we'd all have been blown to smithereens."

"You were pretty close to smithereens when you came in," McIntyre remarked, sipping his gin and looking, despite the situation, largely unperturbed.

"No, no, he saved us-we were surrounded, out of ammo, one of 'em came up and was about to send us all to kingdom come, but he talked him down. Got us out of there. Woulda been home free but artillery fire came down, and, well, we wound up here. But it woulda been a hell of a lot worse if not for Vess."

"A translator?" Pierce asked.

"Don't speak a word," Vess replied with a shrug.

"I don't know how he did it, but the man's a godsend." The man leaned heavily on Vess, and she gently pushed him into the chair she'd previously occupied.

"The man's not a soldier," Blake appeared baffled, "Man's not even a man."

"Respectfully, sir, we'd be dead without this son of a bitch. I'll swear on my commission, on my life. I'd take him back to front in an instant."

"Well, uhm, Major Dobbs, this, uhm-hm." Blake chewed on his cigar. "The officer's manual didn't, uhm, say anything about, heh, this. Hm. Huh. Radar, coffee?"

"Yes, sir."

"Houlihan, get the Major back to his bed. Now, Vess-uhn, if that is that your real name?"

"It is, sir."

"Why don't you start from the beginning."

"Yes, do, I can't wait to hear this," Pierce settled back in his chair, whiskey in hand. To his right, McIntyre propped his feet on the Colonel's desk.

"Would you knuckleheads get out of here? You too, Frank."

"Sir, I-"

"Get out, I said. Radar, bring me that damn coffee."

"It's here, sir," Radar thrust the mug into his hand, and made to exit the office.

"You stay, I want you to take down what she says."

"I can write it, Henry, I'm technically literate," Pierce quipped.

"OUT!"

The officers filed out. Vess, Blake, and Radar were left in the suddenly quiet office, the silence punctuated by the distant pop of gunfire.

"Well?"

Vess drew in a breath and again adjusted the strap of her sling. "I didn't mean any trouble."

"Who are you?"

"An ally, I swear. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, got my shoulder busted up for it."

"Is what Dobbs said true?"

"We were under fire. A soldier came right up to us, I just, I dunno, I talked to him. He couldn't understand me, I couldn't understand him. But we were both of us pretty scared, and I guess we managed to find some common ground."

Blake frowned. "Go on."

"I gave him some rations."

"Supplying the enemy is a pretty big offense."

"Then write me up as offensive," Vess clasped the arm of the chair. "I did what I thought was right, human to human."

"Though not quite soldier to soldier." Blake's wry remark caused her to bristle.

"Look, sir, I tried to enlist. I did."

"As a nurse?"

"As a pilot," she retorted. "But the Air Force turned me down-seemed to think I was a woman. So I tried the Navy, but they said they'd reached their quota. Then the Army, same squat. I tried, Colonel, I did. I had to get over here, one way or another. I had to know what's going on. Had to see-had to help."

"We need nurses, Vess, desperately."

"Not me, I've got deplorable bedside manner."

"Then what? What did you hope to achieve?" Vess said nothing, and Blake blinked a few times, trying to comprehend what the other was saying. "The front line is no place for a young woman like yourself."

"Says who? Why the hell not? I can handle a gun as well as anybody, sir," she spat the last word, "Would you tell your nurses they aren't capable enough? That Houlihan, isn't she one of your officers?"

"My head nurse."

"You think your head nurse can't handle herself simply because she happens to be a woman?"

"Of course not-"

"Besides, I don't see why I should be punished for the simple crime of being born a woman. You think I asked to be a-think I wanted-" Vess exhaled a sharp breath through her nose and attempted to compose herself. "Who's to say I don't belong here?"

In the corner, Radar had put his pencil down and was staring fixedly at one of the scuffed legs of Blake's desk.

"Radar, don't-"

"I didn't write that last bit, sir."

"Let me tell you something, kiddo, there are a lot of good men who gave up a lot to be over here, and a lot more of us who did the same without much of a choice. We all do our damndest to keep ourselves and each other alive. You secreting yourself to the front lines, god knows how, really put Dobbs and his company in the thick of it. I don't know what you told him about who you were or what you're doing here, but to have a civilian on the battlefield is bad for business. Do you understand what I'm saying? Think of the trouble it'd've caused if you'd gotten yourself killed. The U.S. Army doesn't want anybody who doesn't have official military business being anywhere near the big guns."

Blake paused, then said: "During the fight, were you afraid?"

Vess finally looked up. "What?"

"Were you scared?"

She searched his face. "Of course I was. I thought we were going to die."

"Good, you have some sense." Blake stood and Vess followed suit, hand curled into a fist.

"Can I ask you a question now, sir?"

He gave a slight nod.

"Why'd you have the others leave?"

The man's jaw clenched. "Would you rather they'd've stayed?" Vess' chin lifted, eyes flicked away. Blake gave a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Radar, have the MPs escort her-hi-Vess to the P.O.W. tent."

"Yessir."

Once the clerk had returned, he loitered in the doorway.

"What do you think, Radar?"

The Corporal's eyes widened. "Think, sir?"

"What should we do?"

"Oh, uh, that's a bit above my head, sir."

"You heard Dobbs, he wants Vess back on the front lines with 'im." Blake gulped down the rest of his drink. "Think we should offer a compromise?"

"A compromise?"

Wryly, Blake noted, "The big guns won't like it. I'd be sticking my neck out pretty far."

"For a civilian, sir?"

"Well," Blake studied the empty glass in his hand, "that's not his fault."


	2. A Foggy Day at the 4077

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Immediately following the previous chapter, the past begins to come to light and threatens Vess' position--and life.

Sunday dawned blindingly bright with a thick, low carpet of fog obscuring landmarks into vague dark shadows. Hawkeye Pierce opened the door to the Swamp and groaned, shielding his eyes.

"It burns, it burns," he howled, lurching blindly forward with one arm thrown over his face.

His tentmate, Trapper John McIntyre, followed, yawning. "I specifically told them to cancel the weather today."

After a few stumbled feet, Pierce caught a glimpse of the P.O.W. tent and dropped the act. "Say," he said, "should we pay our visitor a visit? It's been, what, four days already?"

"Henry doesn't seem to know what to do with 'er."

"Henry doesn't know what to do with anyone unless they're a five-foot bottle of gin."

The two turned in what they hoped was the direction of the tent (the swirling fog swallowing all sense of east, west, and otherwise) and walked forward until the wooden frame of the door appeared before them.

"Aren't there supposed to be guards out here?" McIntyre asked.

"Maybe they accidentally did the halt-or-I'll-shoot routine on each other and decided to call it a day," Pierce replied, and pulled open the door.

A peal of raucous laughter drifted out as they squeezed themselves inside the surprisingly packed confines of the tent. The two MPs assigned to the prisoner lounged on the bed, heads thrown back in laughter. A handful of off-duty hospital personnel, some still in sweat-stained scrubs from their shift, milled around, listening to the tent's occupant of honor.

"-the Colonel turned to his troops and said, 'Hold fast, men,' and Sam shouted back, 'To what, sir, I haven't had a date in months.' And the Colonel snaps to attention, 'That's enough lip out of you, soldier!' and Sam replies, 'That's what they keep telling me.'"

The tent burst into laughter again. Pierce and McIntyre exchanged raised eyebrows and pushed their way to the unoccupied bed at the other end of the tent, only to find it occupied. "Father?"

Father Mulcahy looked as if he wanted to shrink into himself and disappear. "Ah, hello, my sons, have a seat." He scooted over to allow the men room. "I thought I'd pay our prisoner a wellness check after this morning's services, but, ah-"

"Looks like the rest of camp beat you to it," Pierce remarked.

The Father let out a dry chuckle and held up a bowl he'd been cradling, "Peanut?"

Corporal Klinger marked the Sunday with his best green frock and white gloves, the latter of which were pulled off as he entered Colonel Henry Blake's office and snapped into a salute. The Colonel was slouched in his chair over a clipboard, rereading the same few sentences in the hopes that, by the seventeenth time around, they might make sense.

"Colonel Blake, sir, I'd like to file a formal complaint."

"Wouldn't we all, Klinger, but there's probably not much I can do about it. I'm not MacArthur-lord knows I'd have a better office if I were."

"Sir, I've put up with the catcalls and harassment for long enough, but today is where I draw the line."

"Catcalls?" Blake glanced up, "Are you sure there wasn't a nurse walking behind you at the time?"

Klinger reached into his purse and tossed a fist-sized metal object onto the Colonel's desk. "This is it, sir, the last straw."

"Klinger," Blake said, slowly pushing his chair back from his desk until he collided with cabinets, "Look, I'm sorry you're being harassed, I am, I'll have a talk with the men about-have I told you what a lovely dress that is? Really brings out your eyes."

"Sir," Klinger put his hands on his hips, "it's not a real grenade."

Blake stopped eying the space under his desk and looked up, "It's not?"

"No, I checked. It's a camera."

"You chec-a camera?"

"It was in my quarters, sir, now I don't know what kind of sick jokers are in this outfit, but I won't stand for this."

"Now, hold on, Klinger, I do know the sick jokers we have in camp and I can't imagine they'd pull a stunt like this. Gluing your garter belts together, sure. Stringing your slip from the flagpole, once or twice. But a camera? That seems too far, even for them."

"I want everyone in camp questioned and the perpetrator punished," Klinger snapped, "The stress is wrinkling my stockings."

Blake nodded, "I'll call Pierce and McInty-I mean, I'll question the men and see if they know who might have done this."

"Yes, sir, do that, sir." Klinger turned on his heel, a tasteful black pump, and stomped out of the room.

Blake gingerly set the clipboard on the desk and leaned forward to examine the object. Was it...ticking? "RAD-" he began.

"Sir?"

Blake jerked so violently he nearly fell off his chair. "Gee, I wish you made more noise. Get Pierce and McIntyre in here, I have some questions about their photography skills."

"Oh, uh," Radar O'Reilly gave his CO a confused look, "sure thing, sir."

Back in the P.O.W. tent, a shift change had cleared the crowd. Father Mulcahy excused himself for his afternoon prayers, silently asking for forgiveness from on high for the series of vulgar jokes he'd had to endure.

Pierce and McIntyre were left alone with the prisoner, who cleared some dirt and dust off the cot in order to sit.

"How's the shoulder?" Hawkeye asked.

"Puts a hold on my pitching career," the prisoner replied.

"You're a good storyteller," McIntyre offered.

The prisoner nodded. "Thanks."

A few moments of silence followed.

"So," Pierce tried again, "Vess, is it? I'm Pierce, but most people call me Hawkeye. This here's Trapper John McIntyre."

"Saw you a few days ago. Colonel's office."

"Right, right."

Another uncomfortable silence. Vess stared unblinking in their direction, eyes flicking back and forth between them.

"You don't seem to talk much, huh? Surprising, after the earful you gave Frank."

"Yeah," Trapper laughed, "hey, you really gave it to him, I wondered why he was so red when he brought you in."

Vess sat back on the cot, sparing a glance toward the door before returning to the men.

"Hey, c'mon," Pierce lowered his voice, "We're not here to interrogate you, just want to see how you're holding up."

"Yeah, we were ordered out of the office for your confessional, remember? Though I can't imagine Henry ribbed you too hard, he's a good egg."

"Couldn't hurt a fly."

"Fact, the fly'd probably hurt him."

The prisoner flashed a quick, wry smile.

Pierce matched it with a grin of his own, "There we go-say, won't you talk to us? We're not with the Army, at least not by choice."

Vess finally spoke: "Can't a fella keep to 'emself around here without causing a stir?"

"Around here?" McIntyre pondered the question, "Not very easily."

"Doubt I'll be around too long."

Hawke and Trapper exchanged a look. "I wouldn't be so sure."

"Some rumors floating around say you might stay."

"But you can't trust rumors, can you, Trap?"

"Oh, not much, Hawke. Depends on the source."

"And we do have some very reliable sources."

"They're gonna throw me in jail."

"For what, impersonating a civilian?"

"Impersonating a non-civilian?"

"Oh, nothing too serious, just lying to officers and interfering in military business."

"Oh, that's nothing," Trapper said, "We lie to multiple officers every day."

"Especially to ourselves."

"Our business is to interfere in military business."

"And business is booming." Hawke stood, "Can we get you a cup of coffee?"

"Why?"

"To...drink? It's a bit nippy out there."

"Dobbs has been singing your praise for days. You really left a mark on him. Saved a dozen lives."

"'Sides, anyone who enrages Frank is a friend of ours," McIntyre added, crossing the tent to clap Vess on the shoulder. "We'll get you that joe."

Vess stared after them, speechless.

As the two Captains tramped through the foggy compound to what they hoped was the mess tent, McIntyre grabbed Pierce's arm. "Wait, you hear that?"

They listened.

"Footsteps. Who goes there?"

A muffled voice replied, "Me, sirs."

"Radar?"

"Over here," the voice sounded again, and a short figure came stumbling into them out of the fog. As Pierce caught his shoulder, Radar pulled the scarf from his mouth. "Colonel Blake wants to see you. Has some questions about your, uh, photography skills."

"As the model or the photographer?"

"Or the camera?"

"I don't know, sirs, he's in his office."

"Radar, bring our guest a cup of coffee, will you?" Before the Corporal could answer, Pierce and McIntyre were off, calling over a shoulder, "Thanks, Radar, you're a peach."

Under his breath, Radar muttered, "One of these days your coffee'll go down your pants." He pulled his scarf back up and turned toward the mess tent.

"You wanted to see us, Henry?"

"I-yeah, what's the big idea, huh? Klinger's real upset, and I can't blame him. You boys pulled a rotten trick."

"Hold on, Henry, what did we pull?"

"I don't remember pulling anything, do you, Hawke?"

"Not today, it's Sunday, that's our day of rest."

"Well, if you didn't, who did?"

"Did what, Henry?"

"Yeah, don't keep us in the dark, Henry, what exactly did we not do?"

"Put this in Corporal Klinger's tent," Henry held up the hunk of metal.

"Henry, is that a-"

"No, it's not real, I checked-it's a camera."

"A camera?" Pierce took it from his hand and gave it a once over, passing it to McIntyre. "Who'd want to put a camera there? In the showers, sure, but Klinger's tent?"

"Maybe they got lost?" Trap passed it back to Blake.

"Now, this isn't funny, guys, we gotta figure this out."

"There's no 'we,' Henry, this we didn't do anything."

"Aw," Blake leaned back in his chair, "come on, I need help, here, I'm tied up with paperwork, I don't have time to run around camp questioning possible perverts. That could take days."

"With this crew, weeks, even. Disgusting, the lot of 'em."

"That's enough, McIntyre. You say you had nothing to do with this?"

"No, sir," the two said in unison.

"Fine, fine, then you'll be my investigators."

"Your what?"

"Consider yourselves deputized. Go catch me a creep. Dismissed."

"I can think of 20 creeps just off the top of my head," Pierce said, "Present company excluded."

Blake wasn't amused. "Will you get out of here?"

The Captains rose to attention and snapped dramatic salutes. "Aye, captain."

With a few exaggerated 'hut-two-three-four's, the two left the office. Blake blew out a sigh. "Of all the jokers in Korea, I get stuck with two long-lost Marx Brothers."

A knock at the door of the P.O.W. tent surprised Vess out of a doze. "Come in."

"I, uh, brought you some coffee. Hawkeye said you could use some, he and Trap got called away by the Colonel."

"Thanks-Radar, right?"

"That's me," Radar gave a nervous laugh and took a few steps inside to hand Vess the mug.

The prisoner appraised him. "You're young."

"19, sir-ma'am-uh-sir-"

Vess gave him a small smile, "No preference."

"That's-actually-if you don't mind, I-well, I couldn't help but overhear you and the Colonel talking, and-"

"You were in the room writing down my statement, it would be impressive if you managed not to overhear it."

Radar's mouth snapped shut, then jerked back open, "Well, what I mean to say-to ask-is that, well, if you're not a sir or a ma'am-I mean, I s'pose you can't be both-"

"Both or neither, whichever you prefer."

"Well, I, uh, see, I always thought there were just the two, and that you-I mean, not you you, but you, fit into one or the other. But, see, Nurse Baker calls you a her and Major Dobbs said you're a him, and I'm just wondering, uh, well-" He stopped, frowned, "I'm not quite sure what I'm wondering."

"Some of us find it a bit more complicated than just him or her."

"There are others who are-I mean-you're not the only-gee, sorry, I'm outta line." The Corporal had turned a bright shade of red and taken a set on the empty cot, avoiding Vess' eyes.

"It's alright," Vess found a naive sort of charm in the Corporal. "For a long time, I thought I was the only one. But there are lots of people out in the world, and I figured I couldn't be alone, there had to be others like me."

Radar looked up. "Did you find anybody?"

"A few." Vess managed a small smile. "There's always somebody who thinks and feels like you do, somewhere out there."

The Corporal returned the smile. "Major Dobbs thinks you're pretty swell."

"That's very nice of him, considering I endangered his entire unit."

"What d'you mean?"

Vess retreated to the other bunk. "Having somebody like me in your company can cause a lot of problems."

"A civilian?"

Vess looked up sharply, then realized the kid really didn't know what he meant. "Sure, yeah, just a civilian." If 'civilian' was the worst slur to make the report, Vess vowed to eat a shoe.

"Aw, gee, well, you didn't hear this from me, but," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "there may be a place for you here at the 4077."

"What?"

A knock came at the door, "Lunch, soldier."

Radar shushed Vess' questions and stood. "Not so loud-remember: you didn't hear that from me."

"Radar, you didn't say anything," Vess said, confused.

The Corporal winked, misreading confusion as conspiracy, "Exactly."

Was he capable of feigning ignorance, Vess wondered, or did he not recognize that there's a word for folks like me. Several words. And jail time-if I'm lucky, only jail time.

Radar hurried out, oblivious to Vess' internal debate, throwing a salute to the MP holding a lunch tray outside the door. Staring after him, she thought, Whole camp's queerer than me.

Major Frank Burns huffed into the Swamp and slumped down on his cot to pull off his boots. Consumed by his own gloom, it took him a moment to realize his two tentmates were staring at him.

"Well, what is it?"

"My, my, Frank."

"Naughty Major Burns."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know, we all have to get our kicks somehow, Frank, but planting a camera?"

"That's low, Burns. And to keep it all to yourself, tsk tsk."

"What the hell is going on?" Frank snapped, "If this is some sort of joke, it isn't very damn funny."

"Dirty pictures are no joking matter, Frank, I happen to take my nudie magazines very seriously."

"Dirty pic-what exactly are you accusing me of, Pierce?"

"Planting that camera in Klinger's tent."

"Camera?! How dare you, I would never-that degenerate is lying, trying to frame me in some perverse scheme!"

Trap leaned over and muttered to Pierce, "He sounds serious."

"Hm," Pierce replied. To Frank, "You really don't know anything about this?"

"I do not!"

The two doctors threw up their hands.

Trap sighed, "Well, who the hell did it? We've questioned everyone in camp and nobody knows anything."

"Someone really put a camera in Klinger's tent? Why on earth would they want to do that?"

"That's what we can't seem to find out."

"Did you talk to that prisoner? There's something not quite right with that...person-you know, I think she might be a-" His eyes grew wide, "you know."

"Oh, Frank, don't tell me: a vegetarian."

"Worse," he hissed.

"What could be worse than a vegetarian?" Trap mused.

Frank glanced around, as if there were anyone who cared to listen in on the conversation, "A queer."

"Oh, heavens above," Pierce said, in mock concern. "In our good and pure all-American army? Why don't we go ask her together, Frank, since you're so insistent on throwing accusations around."

"Yeah, come on, Frank," Trap grabbed one arm, Pierce the other, and they frog-marched the Major through the foggy compound to the P.O.W. tent.

A single MP stood guard outside. At their approach, he blocked the doorway. "The prisoner is not allowed visitors."

"Come on, pal, we're just a few passing vacuum cleaner salesmen offering our wares. This here unit's a fine specimen, sucks the air out of any room, guaranteed."

As Frank spluttered, the MP stood firm. "No can do."

Pierce leaned closer, peering past the bushy mustache to get a better look at the man's face. "You new to this outfit, soldier?"

"Did this come down from Colonel Blake?" Trap asked, unbelieving. He dropped hold of Burns' arm. To his left, Hawke did the same.

"You heard me, scram." The mustache seemed to droop slightly as he spoke.

Pierce groaned, "Oh, no. Not you."

"What?" McIntyre squinted at the MP, "Who is it?"

"It can't be, we got rid of you."

"Thought you were clever with that appendicitis bit, didn't you?" the MP growled. "I was trained to survive without twenty-five percent of my organs."

"Not unless you're Frankenstein's creature, you didn't." Pierce rolled his eyes and turned away.

"That's not-oh, hell."

"Where are you going, Pierce? We're not done here."

"We're done, Flagg."

"Colonel Flagg?" Burns finally grasped the situation, "I didn't even recognize you! A true master of disguise, really commendable!"

"Stop drooling, Frank. We're going to talk to Henry and tell him his favorite neurotic is back."

"You'll do no such thing," Flagg snapped, "and I'm not Flagg here, name's Jester."

"You get that name when you graduated as a master clown?" Trap asked, following Pierce.

Quick as a whip, Flagg leapt around to stop them from moving any further. "I need your help. This is top secret, strictly confidential."

"Then tell Henry, we can't be bothered-"

"Your CO is to be left out of the loop. This information is for your ears only, I'm trusting you three with this information."

Simultaneously, Hawkeye and Trapper said, "No, Flagg," as Burns eagerly snapped to attention with, "Of course, sir."

"There's a spy in your midst."

"I know, I'm looking at him," Pierce stared pointedly at Flagg.

"Not me, wise guy, one of your enlisted men. I've got a few suspects, but haven't gathered enough intel yet. I'll keep you posted. Stay vigilant."

Without another word, he disappeared into the fog.

After a moment, Pierce rubbed a hand across his face, "I need a drink." He took a few steps. "I need a drink."

"You just said that."

"Yeah, well, I need two drinks."

"You should be honored the Colonel is trusting you with such a serious mission," Frank snapped, attempting to block their way. "Where are you going?"

Hawkeye dodged around him, "To get a drink."

"You've got drinks in that sty of a tent!"

"Henry's got a better selection."

"He said not to tell Colonel Blake."

"Frank, the man's a nutjob-and I myself speak as a professional nutjob!"

"You will not tell Colonel Blake, and that's an order."

Pierce raised himself to his full height, giving Burns a glare that could melt steel. "Frank, you may be a superior officer on paper, but you're sure as hell not superior enough to get me to go around Henry's back. If Flagg is here, that means trouble."

"And if there's trouble, Henry outta know about it," Trap added, pushing past the Major.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to stop the Captains, Burns fell back and watched them tramp through the mist to Blake's office. "You'll be sorry," he called at their retreating backs. "I'll be telling Colonel Flagg!"

"That's Jester, soldier!"

Burns spun around, nearly falling over. Flagg loomed out of the fog behind him, reattaching his faux mustache.

"Now they're gone we can talk shop. I'm trusting you with the truth, soldier, and if we pull this off I promise you the lion's share."

Frank, piles of promised gold shining in his eyes, listened intently.

As Pierce and McIntyre passed the door to Post-Op, sights set on the Colonel's office, Radar burst into the compound, "Choppers, sirs!" Running past, he repeated at a shout, "Choppers!"

"Fantastic."

"Just our luck."

They made their way to the sinks to scrub up. Nurses and medics filtered past, including a weary-faced Colonel Blake, who found a free sink and said, "So much for a nice, quiet Sunday."

"Henry-"

"Yo."

"-we've got to talk to you," Trap said, on the Colonel's left.

"You find our secret photographer?"

"No, something else has come up," Pierce said, from his right.

"Oh, c'mon-well, save it, guys, we've got work to do."

"Really, Henry-"

"Colonel," Houlihan called from the operating room, "we need you in here!"

"Duty calls," Blake tossed his towel in the hamper and elbowed open the door, "Catch me later, fellas, maybe then I'll be awake."

Pierce and McIntyre gave a synchronized shrug and followed.

Ten minutes later, Major Burns shouldered his way into the room, chest puffed out in self-importance.

Pierce looked up from the chest full of shrapnel in front of him. "Where the hell have you been, Frank?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," the Major snapped.

"We're up to our elbows in blood, here, Burns, and you're off galavanting through the fog?"

"That's enough, Pierce, McIntyre," Blake called

"You weren't giving anybody a hard time, were you, Frank?" Pierce ignored the Colonel, plinking another bit of metal into a tray the nurse was holding. "Any certain individual who happened to be visiting camp?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Can it, folks," Blake raised his voice to be heard over the commotion, "Save it for your off time."

"Oh, Colonel," Frank said, in a sing-song, "I'll need to speak to you once we're through here."

"You and half the camp," Blake snapped.

Several grueling hours of surgery later, Pierce and McIntyre pulled off their gloves and followed Blake to the sinks.

"Henry-" Pierce began.

"Colonel, I believe I asked to speak-" Burns interrupted.

"Hold it!" Blake leaned over the sink, splashed a few handfuls of water on his face, muttered, "What I wouldn't give for this to be gin," and straightened. "Alright, shoot. Pierce, you first."

"Flagg's back."

"What?"

"The crazy son of a bitch is back, saying there's a spy in camp."

"That's a lie!" Burns butted in.

"A lie-Frank you were there when he fed us the whole mess."

"Sir," Burns elbowed his way past Pierce to mutter something at Blake's ear.

The Colonel started, "What?"

Burns nodded, glee bursting through his attempt at a sober expression.

Henry burst out laughing. "Oh, that's a good one, wow, Frank, you almost had me going there for a second. Ooh, boy."

"Colonel Blake, I'm deadly serious."

"I'm sure you think you are, Frank." Chortling, Henry headed for the compound.

"Well now you've got me curious." Pierce and McIntyre outpaced Burns to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Colonel, blocking Frank's access. "What'd he say?"

"Not sure I should tell you, Hawke, I've been made aware of some highly classified intel," Blake stepped into the sunshine, still laughing. "Ah, the fog's gone! Lovely."

"Well?"

"He says he received an anonymous tip that says you're the spy."

A gunshot rang through the air. In the same instant Frank dove for the dirt, Pierce, McIntyre, and Blake ran toward the sound.

"Here's lunch, soldier."

"Already had it." Vess looked up from their book, "Hey, where's Leon?"

"I relieved him. Name's Jester," the MP stepped inside and, with an air of dramatics, ripped off his mustache. "We need to talk, soldier."

Vess regarded him with disinterest. "Am I supposed to know you?"

"You thought you were clever, didn't you, Vess-even used your real name." Jester paced in front of the empty cot, turning to look over his shoulder to emphasize the next words, "Most of it, that is."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Vess laid the book, face down, on their lap.

"Elinor," the MP spat, triumphant, "You're a woman."

Vess looked down at their chest in mock surprise, "I am? Slap me and call it a Sunday, it sure seems I was born that way."

"Play it coy all you want, Elinor-"

"Don't call me that." Vess' cool demeanor slipped for a moment.

"-I know why you came here-"

"Yeah, a kind field medic decided I should keep both arms and shipped me in for treatment."

"Here to Korea, Elinor-"

"I told you not to call me that."

"-to spy for whatever heinous, un-American pinko bastards that sent you. It's just a matter of figuring out who exactly they were. My money's on that All-American Democrats League-see, the boys back at HQ weren't able to dig that much up, but I'm of the persuasion that it doesn't really matter." He drew his revolver. "Only good Red is dead."

"What are you saying?"

"You're a Communist!"

"A Communist?" Vess couldn't stifle a laugh. "That's it?"

"It happens to be a very serious offense. Treason is punishable by death. Get up."

Vess didn't move. "Well, I happen to be a civilian, I have rights-"

"Not anymore you don't." Jester stepped forward and clicked the safety off. "Up."

Vess stood, book slipping to the dirt floor with a quiet thud. "Where're we going?"

"For a walk. Out."

They left the tent, the prisoner in front with Jester not far behind.

"Keep walking," he growled.

"Lovely day for it," Vess remarked, eyes darting around for signs of life. The compound seemed to be deserted, despite the suddenly clear skies.

"Toward the minefield."

"The mine-hold it, buster," Vess turned, but Jester raised the gun.

"Go ahead and try it, Elin-"

Vess' free fist curled, "Don't call me that."

"We're going for a walk, Elinor, to the minefield. Normally I'd have qualms about shooting a woman, but you are a low-down gutless little punk and don't qualify as such."

"That's the nicest thing you've said yet."

"Walk."

"I won't play your game, Jester, so go ahead and shoot-"

The crack of the gunshot echoed in the empty camp.

The three doctors skidded onto the scene, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of the gun's wielder.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Colonel Blake, I caught this prisoner attempting to escape."

"Aw, hell, Pierce, I hoped you were joking about Flagg."

"Wish I were, Henry. Flagg, you son of a bitch, you shot her."

"The scum was escaping." Without turning his head, "Stay where you are, Captain, or I've got a bullet with your name on it."

Vess stood very still, a trickle of blood running down their right cheek. The bullet had whizzed by, just nicking the skin, quick enough to snatch the breath out of their lungs.

"Hands up," Flagg called.

Right hand slowly extended, only a slight tremor betraying the unease of the hand's owner.

"Other one."

The prisoner glanced at the sling, "I can't."

"Up!" Flagg stepped forward, roughly pulling Vess' left arm from the sling and thrusting it skyward.

Vess bit back a pained cry. Blake stepped forward.

"That's enough, Flagg. Put that damn thing away."

"This is an enemy spy, Colonel, don't you see? Since the minute this creature arrived in this country, it's been helping the enemy. Stealing supplies, food, you name it from good God-fearing Americans, for the bellies of those pinko heathens." By now a crowd had gathered, forming a half-circle behind the doctors. "Like some sort of...humanitarian." He spat the word.

Pierce rolled his eyes, "How terrible."

"Hold on a minute," Burns called, pushing his way through the crowd. His scrubs were slightly dusty from his tumble. "You said Pierce was the spy."

"You did well, Burns, just the distraction I needed. Your country thanks you for your service."

Frank swelled with pride. "Oh, well, just doing my duty, you know."

"Thought you were clever, huh?" Flagg turned his attention back to the prisoner, "Well, Uncle Sam's been watching you and he knows what you've done. What you are."

"He knows, does he?" Vess' voice was strained, "Gee, what a shame. My operation was nearly a success."

"See!" Burns crowed, "A confession! And don't forget, Colonel Flagg, this thing is also a-"

"Quit, Frank," Blake shot him a sharp look, which was ignored.

"-a queerie."

"That's it!" Blake barked, "To my office, now! Flagg, Burns, all of you. Now."

Pierce pushed past Flagg. "Let's take a look at that," he murmured, peering at the blood on the prisoner's face. "Ah, just a scratch. Probably leave a neat scar," he quipped, trying to prompt a smile but received a wide-eyed stare in return. With a sigh, Pierce felt Vess' shoulder and received a wince in return. "We'll need to do some work on that, looks like somebody tore the stitches. Should be more careful."

Taking the uninjured arm, he led Vess to the Colonel's office.

Radar, peering nervously out the door of the clerk's office, caught sight of the approaching party and quickly jumped into his seat, so intent on pretending to be occupied with a file that he didn't notice it was upside down.

Blake led the way into the office, stomping mad, and had just opened his mouth to shout when Radar supplied the sentence instead, "Yes, sir, coffee coming up."

"Henry, we should patch up that shoulder before it bleeds all over your desk."

"In a goddamn minute," Blake was in no mood for laughs, "I wanna get this settled once and for all. I just wanted to enjoy the sun on this Sunday, and you just had to go and make trouble. All of you. Klinger with his camera, Flagg with his trigger-happy finger, and you," he turned to Vess, "with your...espionage."

That wasn't where Vess, who'd been able to gather their thoughts in the shuffle to the Colonel's office, expected the sentence to end. "Sir, I'll admit I lied before, but I swear to you I'm not a spy. I wouldn't even know where to begin in the espionage business."

"Why don't we ask Flagg, here, he seems to be the expert," Trapper, with a bottle of alcohol in one hand and a cloth in the other, pushed Vess into an open chair and set about swabbing their wound.

"Ow!"

"Shush."

"Where are you coming up with these accusations, Flagg? Stealing Army supplies, helping enemy soldiers?"

"We've been watching this individual since she entered the ROK, we knew she was trouble from the beginning."

"Who's 'we,' Flagg, the CIA?"

"The HUAC?" Trap offered.

"The voices in your head?" Pierce added.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Coffee, sirs." Radar unloaded his tray of mugs around the room, stopping by Vess and leaning down, "Here, sir-ma'a-si-uh."

"Sir's fine," Vess accepted the mug and managed a tight smile.

Radar returned the gesture, and assumed his usual position at Blake's side.

"Is that true, Vess?" the Colonel asked, "About the supplies and all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hah," Burns crowed, "The thing doesn't even deny it!"

"Frank, keep talking like that and I'll wash your gills out with soap." Blake turned back to Vess, "You've got a chance to defend yourself, here, this is all going in what I'm sure will be one helluva report to the top brass."

"I have no need to defend myself, sir."

"You don't?"

"I don't."

"No remorse," Flagg sneered, "Disgusting."

Vess cast him a glance that could curdle milk but said nothing.

"Are you sure, miss?" Blake had the stern tone of a seasoned scolder.

"Uh, 'sir,' sir," Radar spoke in a low voice at Blake's ear.

"Huh? Sir?-oh, sir," he corrected, "Are you sure, sir?"

"You should have shipped this criminal out days ago," Flagg continued, before Vess could say anything. "Every hour you let her remain here, she has a chance to sabotage another vital cog in the Army machine."

"What can be done from here?" Pierce asked. "Booby-trap bedpans? Put on a different pair of pants to sneak an extra penicillin shot? But wait: we know someone who has a history with penicillin, don't we, Flagg?"

"I've been watching your troops, Colonel, and I've seen some very disturbing things."

"You wouldn't happen to know about a camera that got tossed into one of our Corporal's tents, would you?" Trapper asked.

"A red herring. Had to keep the dogs off the scent, make sure my investigation wasn't being followed."

"Congratulations, Flagg," Pierce quipped, "I'm certainly not following you."

"You know that man wears brassieres? Is this the sort of degenerate you allow in your camp, Colonel? Jokers and perverts and, worst of all, pinko queers-"

"That's quite enough outta you, Flagg." Blake rose from his seat, slamming his hands flat on his desk, "I let you get away with your questioning, and your paranoid frenzies, and your being a general nuisance. But at the end of the day this is a hospital, my hospital, and I will not have you endangering any of our patients. Any of them. I don't care who you are-CIA, CID, SOB. Go ahead and file your report; I'll be filing one of my own, about how you fired live ammunition on a foggy day in a hospital compound, how you struck one of my patients, how you impersonated an MP, and, worst of all, how you wasted my time. Now, get out of my office."

He sat back down, the creak of his chair the only sound in the suddenly hushed office.

Even Flagg seemed to be struck dumb. Without a word, he turned on his heel and was gone.

Burns was the first to break the silence. "But, sir, the fog has cleared. It'd be unfair to include that part."

Blake scoffed. He looked out the office window at the sun-filled sky, "Looks pretty foggy to me."

"Can't see your hand in front of your face," Pierce beamed at him.

"Thick as pea soup," Trapper added.

Blake rubbed his hands across his face, "Alright, that goes for all of you, too: get out of my office. Scram."

"Come on," Trap pulled Vess to his feet, "Let's patch up that shoulder before you manage to get shot again...again."

Vess held back, "Sir-"

"Later, Vess," Blake said, waving him off.

Radar followed them out, pausing at the door to say, "Good, uh, good work, sir." He managed to wait until he was alone in the clerk's office to break into a grin.

The extra damage to the shoulder wasn't severe, stitches easily resewn and the wound rebandaged. After promising to stay out of trouble, Vess was set free to the compound and was surprised to find himself no longer confined to the P.O.W. tent.

Deciding not to push the winds of fortune, Vess found a sturdy tree on the edge of camp under which to read. A few hours later and with only a few chapters remaining, Vess suddenly found the sunlight blocked. He looked up, closed the book with a thumb marking the page.

"Colonel?"

"Lovely day without that fog, huh?" Blake said.

Vess squinted up at him. "Sure is."

"We don't get many lovely days here. Given the circumstance, I 'spose that makes sense, it being wartime and all. They can't spare the nice weather."

Vess wasn't sure how to respond.

"That won't bother you." It was unclear if the words were a statement or a question.

"Just makes the lovely days more so, I guess."

Blake considered him for a moment, then tossed a little booklet onto Vess' lap.

"What's this?"

"A press pass." Blake replied. "A real one, see how the seal doesn't smear?" Vess was struck silent, and the Colonel continued, "Consider it a field promotion: you're now our resident correspondent. There's a stateside rag back in Bloomington, Illinois, that'll be expecting monthly columns. Couple hundred words, no sweat. I hear you're good at telling stories."

"Colonel, I-"

"Just don't ask me too many questions, alright? Last thing I need is some pushy reporter sticking their nose where it doesn't belong."

After a moment, Vess managed, "Sure thing, sir."

Blake began to walk away, then stopped and half-turned, "Oh, and Vess?"

"Sir?"

"We've all got reputations to protect," he said, hiding a smile, "Try not to make us look too bad, will you?"


	3. Pinch Hitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 4077 finds a break from the constant stream of casualties in the form of a friendly baseball match.

_"Hey, batter, batter!"_

_Though a few thousand miles from home, the doctors, nurses, and staff of MASH 4077 use some of their precious time off to celebrate an all-American pastime. This week marks the inaugural baseball showdown between day and night shifts, the first in what will become a new bimonthly tradition. With no opportunity for a formal training camp, given their busy schedules, the folks of the 4077 incorporated game prep into their regular routine:_

_Corporal Radar O'Reilly, first baseman for the day shift, used the sloping roof of the Officers' Club to work on catching until Major Frank Burns and asked him to find somewhere else to practice._

_Captain John McIntyre, pitcher for the night shift, could be found arm-wrestling anyone who got within arm's length, with special attention paid to passing nurses._

_And the camp's chaplain, Father Mulcahy, catcher for the day shift, opted for a group method of exercise and delivered his Sunday sermon at a jog around the camp, encouraging attempted worshipers to move at a fast clip to keep up._

_The CO, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, will serve as umpire to avoid-_

"Head's up!"

Vess had just enough time to throw a hand up and catch the baseball before it collided with their face.

"Sorry!" Nurse Baker called, brushing hair out of her face, "Got away from me. Say, that was a good catch-day shift needs a third baseman."

"Somebody's gotta sit on the sidelines and take pictures for the folks back home," Vess returned the ball. "If you ask Hawkeye, I'm sure he'd be happy to fill the role. Mention any base around him and his ears perk up."

"He's already promised to be our pitcher," Baker laughed. "How's the shoulder?"

"Sore, but better," Vess rotated their arm, now free of its sling, "You're lucky my right hand isn't all thumbs or you'd be setting my jaw back into place."

With an apologetic wave, Baker jogged back to the other night shift nurses to continue their practice session. Vess returned to the pad, _-to avoid picking sides._

They glanced up and thought, Speak of the devil.

Colonel Blake, clutching a magazine, peered out of the door of the clerk's office. With a few furtive glances left and right, he darted in the direction of the laundry tent.

"We have hotdogs every other week, but the time we need them the most, you can't deliver?"

It's unlikely Private Igor Straminsky could look more disinterested if he tried. "I only put in the supply requests, Pierce, I have no control over whether or not they're filled."

"We can't have our good all-American game without the traditional all-American fixings, isn't there anything you can do?"

"Since when did you start caring about this big party, anyway?"

"Is it so hard to believe I'm a rah-rah all-American GI helping out for a rah-rah all-American event?"

"Yes."

Pierce sighed, "Alright, alright: it's between me and Trap, we're vying for 'Game Morale Officer,' winner gets a week in Tokyo."

Straminsky whistled.

"So what'd'ya say, can you get me the dogs?"

"Sorry, Hawke, can't help you." As Pierce swore and turned away, he continued, "Pester Radar, he might have some connections."

"Yeah, yeah," Pierce waved a hand and walked to the door of the mess tent. As he reached for it, the man standing outside pulled it out of his grasp. The two regarded each other like opposing warlords meeting on the field of battle.

"McIntyre."

"Pierce."

Straminsky watched the exchange and fixed McIntyre the same disinterested look given to his predecessor.

"You have the goods?"

"Got a few dozen hamburgers with your name on 'em."

"Ah, good man, Igor," Trap clapped him on the shoulder, "I'll bring you a bottle of Tokyo's finest."

Back in the Swamp, Pierce mulled over his list, tapping his pencil on the side of the pad. A knock came on the door.

"Sir, are you in?"

"Radar, my good sir, I've got a question for you: do I need a permit for a parade in the compound?"

"Uh, no, as you're not in the way." He entered, carrying a paper-wrapped box. "Package for you."

"Aha! Just what the doctor ordered." Pierce bounded off the cot and planted a kiss on Radar's cheek.

"Oh, gee, sir," O'Reilly protested, wiping his face. "What is it, anyway? Came in special delivery."

"It's my secret weapon." Pierce tore the box open, revealing a navy blue baseball cap.

"A hat?"

"Not just any hat," he flipped it over to reveal an orange 'I' sewed onto the brim, "An Illinois hat. And my key to victory in the quest for supreme Morale Officer."

"Wow! How'd you get it?"

"Friend of a friend knows a clerk who was a shortstop back in his college days, traded it for a bottle of gin. Had it flown up special from Seoul."

"Wow," Radar repeated. "Oh, uh, have you seen Colonel Blake around?"

"Have I? It's your job to keep tabs on him, Radar, not mine."

Radar forced a laugh, "Oh, yeah, heh, well, see, I had quite a few papers for him to sign this morning and he seemed to-well, I think he's, uh, cross about it."

"You think he got lost on the way back from the latrine?"

"Not, uh, lost, just maybe he's, uh, avoiding me."

"Radar, he's a grown man, he's not avoiding you. If anything, you could be unintentionally avoiding him-you know it's hard to see you when you're standing behind a Jeep, or a chair, or a bit of lint…"

"That's not funny," the Corporal grumbled, "Just let me know if you see 'im."

_The day before the big game, I tracked down the CO to get his thoughts on the outcome._

_"We'll give it our all, that's for sure," Blake said, when reached for comment in the upper branches of a tree just outside of camp, "In the end, it's just about having fun, not as though anybody has any money riding on it, that'd, well, that'd just be wrong."_

"Wait, don't write that."

"Sorry, Colonel, already done" Vess tucked the pad and pencil in a pocket. "Can I ask why you're in a tree?"

"You may not, and I'm not here."

"Sure thing, Chief."

"What'd'ya say, Father?"

"Oh, hello, Vess," Father Mulcahy paused in the middle of stringing red, white, and blue streamers from the posts of his tent. "How's the column coming?"

"Just over 200 words. Need any help?"

He thanked him and passed over one end of the streamer. "I meant to ask you how you're holding up."

"My shoulder's better-"

"Yes," he clarified, "Actually, I meant what happened last week. With that Colonel Flagg."

"You heard about that."

"It was hard not to."

Vess tied off the end of the streamer and leaned against an empty fire barrel. "The camp has been very welcoming."

"War is no excuse for a lack of hospitality. Where's home for you?"

A pause. "I was born in the Midwest, haven't been back in years."

Mulcahy gave a good-natured laugh. "That's a big region, were you born anywhere in particular? We have quite a few in this outfit from that area."

"It's all the same to me, Father. What about the others?"

"Radar's from a small town in Iowa, Klinger from Toledo. Major Burns has a practice in Indiana-" Seeing the sour look on his face, he added, "And Colonel Blake hails from Illinois."

"Had a cousin who was a Fighting Illini. Played shortstop."

The chaplain finished tying off his end of the streamer. "My child, I feel I must apologize on behalf of our Major Burns for saying those...things he said."

"'S'alright, Father, I've been called worse."

"He has a good heart, deep down." He opened the door and ushered Vess inside. Followed, he muttered, "Very deep down."

Once they were settled, he asked, "Are you religious?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Father, but the Church and I were never on very good terms."

"May I ask why?"

"You can surely ask." Vess grinned, but offered nothing more.

"Ah." Mulcahy sorted through the files on his desk until he reached the correct one, "Here we are. I ask about your past not for prying reasons, but practical. I make it a point to keep information on my flock, should I need to contact their family."

"Cheerful business."

"It's not always under such grim circumstances, I like to keep track of piety and punctuality to Mass."

"Is that...allowed?"

"A small joke, Vess."

"Oh."

"Now," the chaplain, chuckling at himself, pulled out a pen, "May I have the name and address of a next of kin? Should the worst happen...Or should you fail to show a few Sundays in a row."

Vess cleared his throat. "Well, I, uh-I wouldn't know who to tell."

"A parent? Or sibling?"

"No go on either, Father."

"I'm sorry to hear that...Another family member, perhaps?"

"We're not close."

"Ah, hm, well," he put the file down, "If you think of anyone, do tell me."

"You'll be the first to know. Care to comment on the game?"

"It'll be quite fun, I'm sure," Mulcahy said. His brow furrowed, "Though I must say I'm worried about its effect on morale."

"On morale?"

"Specifically the morale of the two vying morale officers. You know Hawkeye and Trapper haven't spoken in days?"

"That's impressive, seeing that they sleep a foot away from each other."

"I hope the contest won't leave any lasting resentment between them."

"Oh, Father, it's only a game. I'm sure they know that."

McIntyre stared into his mug for a moment, pondering how badly he really needed the caffeine and if it was worth sifting through the muddy grounds to get it. In the end, he determined it was worth the risk and scanned the mess tent for an open seat, groaning when he found only one was available.

Sitting, he cleared his throat. "Pierce."

"McIntyre."

Neither said anything for a moment.

Then Pierce spoke, in a furious undertone. "That trick you pulled with the hamburgers was pretty rich."

"Oh?" McIntyre scoffed, "I'm not the one trying to butter up the ump."

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I'll kill Radar for telling you."

"A bribe, Captain Pierce, that's rich."

"Like you didn't grease Igor's palm to get your dirty little game day snacks, Captain McIntyre."

"Streamers on the Officers' Club, real original."

"I saw you out there yesterday, shining the flagpole."

"Look, Pierce, I deserve this pass-"

"And I don't?"

McIntyre slammed a fist on the table. A hush fell over the crowd in the tent, all of whom turned to look. "Damnit, can you just let me have this?"

Pierce leapt to his feet, "Over my star-spangled fanny."

He stormed out, slamming the door in his wake, and Trapper angrily took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. Feeling eyes on his back, he snapped, "Well, what are you all staring at?"

The mess tent quickly pretended to be engrossed in conversation, eyes fixed straight ahead.

In the corner, Colonel Blake hiding behind a newspaper with his hat tipped low over his eyes, had listened to the raised voices with some interest.

"Father Mulcahy says you're from Toledo."

"Sure am! Born and bred," Corporal Klinger replied, voice slightly more nasal than usual.

"Nice place, I got a cousin there."

"Who is it? Maybe I know 'em."

"Toledo's a big town, I doubt it."

"Ah, but I've got a nose for these things." Klinger tapped his with a wink.

"Hey, Klinger, not to bother you, but," Vess tilted his head, "can I ask why you're upside-down?"

The Corporal, dressed tastefully in slacks and a lacy blouse, dangled by his feet from the eave of the Officers' Club. "Trying to get Colonel Blake to put in for my Section 8."

"Your what?"

"Army discharge on the grounds 'a being loony. I'm doing all I can to prove I fit the bill!"

"Well," Vess found himself getting slightly dizzy, and backed up a few paces, "good luck to you."

"Say, do you think you can say something about me in your column? Maybe get the readers to do a letter-writing campaign to General MacArthur?"

"I'll see what I can do," Vess lied, with a smile and a wave as he backed away. Across the compound, he caught sight of Pierce, stomping along with his hands in his pockets. "Hey, Pierce! Hawkeye!"

He didn't slow, only called over his shoulder, "Leave a message with my secretary, I'm out of the office."

"Hold on," Vess jogged after him, taking two or three strides for each of his steps until they were side-by-side. "What's the matter?"

"The war's the matter," he spat, "We're all over here, continuing our silly rituals and celebrating our ridiculous pastimes as if it means anything at all. As if we can possibly escape this hell."

"With that attitude, you'd be hard-pressed to win the position of Morale Officer."

"What do you know? You chose to be here, you didn't even have to plead with a draft board like the rest of us to stay home-you came here."

"I caught a ride on a bomber."

"You deserve that Section 8 more than Klinger," Pierce looked over Vess' shoulder at the Corporal, who, still upside-down, was currently arguing with a sentry about maintaining his position. "You're certifiable."

"It might surprise you to hear you're not the first to tell me that."

Pierce finally stopped walking. "You've always got something to say. You're lucky I'm not a ruder person, or I'd call you a smartass."

"Takes one to know one."

He laughed, despite himself.

"I wake up in a cold sweat every other night wondering what I'm doing here, what the hell I was thinking. Look, I tried playing by the rules, it didn't get me anywhere but a stockade." Vess steadily met his eyes. "You have to do what you can to help, damn the consequences. Sometimes that means donning a phony reporter's cap," Vess doffed the notepad, "and sometimes it means giving the boys a taste of normalcy, of life back home."

The doctor regarded her wearily. "You're pretty adept at delivering wisdom for someone of your age."

"And you can be pretty shortsighted for someone with the nickname 'Hawkeye.'"

He jabbed Vess in the shoulder and was rewarded with a wince. "I needed that, kid."

Vess rubbed their shoulder, "Always happy to help. You can thank me with a quote for the good folks back home about the big game."

"Try this," Pierce puffed out his chest and waved a finger in the air, "We shall fight by the latrines, we shall fight in the minefield, we shall nevah, nevah surrender home plate."

"Thanks, doc."

_Just hours to go before the showdown between Team Day Shift and Team Night Shift, and tensions are running high._

_The staff of the 4077 take their games very seriously, there have been rumors that some players have even attempted bribing game officials, though these are unsubstantiated._

"There you are sir."

"Gah-Radar! How many times have I told you to make noise when you sneak up behind me?"

"Sorry, sir, uh, what are you doing?"

"I'm shaving, Radar, though thanks to you I started an impromptu self-tracheotomy."

"In...in the supply closet, sir?"

"In here's the best light," Blake said, squinting to see in the dim glow of the closet's single lightbulb.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, to be honest, I just needed a minute to myself. Can't hear myself think with all the frenzy over this game."

"I understand, sir," Radar turned to go, noticeably deflated.

"What is it, Radar?" Blake frowned, wiping his razor on a towel. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think I just kicked your grandmother."

"It's alright, sir, she can handle herself. I'll leave you to it, sir."

"Hold it, Corporal," Blake turned. "Is this about what I said earlier, about the amount of paperwork and the, uh, suggestion of where to stick it? Because I didn't mean it, you know that. Don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Aw, would you cheer up, Radar? That's an order."

Before O'Reilly could respond, the door swung open again and Pierce entered at a run. "Colonel Blake, I'd like to officially request a change to the lineup of tomorrow's game."

"Oh, Pierce, it's a little late for that-"

"I'd like to remove my name from the running for Morale Officer."

"You'd like to what?"

"I-"

"Henry," McIntyre followed, panting, "I've taken it under careful consideration-busy for the foreseeable future-you better give that pass to Hawke-"

"Ignore him," Pierce wheezed, "I was going to bribe you, Henry, that disqualifies me-"

"What are you both talking about?"

"He should go, he deserves it-"

"No, no, he deserves it-"

"Well, well, this is a different tune than your shouting match in the mess tent," Henry returned to his shave. "Don't you boys worry, you can drop the good samaritan act. I've solved your problem."

"You have?" The men spoke in unison.

"Sure: call it a tie."

"Oh," Pierce glanced over.

"In that case," McIntyre grinned back.

"Lots of last minute prep to take care of." The two linked arms, headed for the compound. "We'll send you a postcard from Tokyo, Henry."

_Game Day, a bright Wednesday afternoon: Amid tents strung with with streamers, the staff of the 4077 did last-minute stretches as onlookers -patients, locals, and visitors from nearby aid stations- milled about, trading laughs, grabbing hamburgers, and making good-natured predictions about the game's outcome._

_The Sun was high in the sky as Capt. McIntyre pitched first for the Team Night Shift, striking out Privs. Staminsky and Jones. Nurse Baker made it around the bases with help from Father Mulcahy, who followed her home._

_Team Day Shift pitcher Capt. Hawkeye Pierce delivered Maj. Burns to first base on a walk after several warnings from the umpire for errant pitches. Good hitting by Maj. Houlihan and Corp. Washington allowed all three to round the bases and earn the lead for the Night Shift, 3-2._

_Day Shift scored two runs in the third inning for a 4-3 lead they didn't manage to keep as McIntyre and Corp. Kye, brought in as a last-minute substitute, brought their team two more runs._

_The 4077ers modified the traditional rules of baseball to shorten the length of the game to five innings, or first to 7 runs. After a dramatic start to the final inning, in which Corp. Klinger bunted the ball into the weeds near home plate and managed to round all three bases as the infielders scrambled, the teams were tied 5-5._

_Staminsky attempted a similar move and made it as far as second base._

_First baseman for the Day Shift, Corp. O'Reilly, another last-minute sub, took to the plate. After a lackluster showing in the earlier innings, he stared down the pitcher with a determined look on his face._

_"Hey, batter, batter!"_

_"Swing, batter!"_

_"You get an extra hamburger if you flub this one, Radar!"_

_McIntyre pitched-Jaw set, young Mr. O'Reilly swung-_

_Onlookers and players alike were struck silent as the ball flew through the air, over the heads of the outfielders, going, going, gone-until it came to an explosive landing in the nearby minefield._

_All at once, the crowd erupted. Players from both teams stormed the field, hoisting O'Reilly onto their shoulders._

Nurse Baker planted a kiss on the dazed Corporal's cheek.

"Way to go, Radar!" "Yeah, good one, O'Reilly!"

"That's my boy!" Colonel Blake hollered-despite his position as the supposedly unbiased umpire, everyone let it slide.

In the midst of the celebrations, Radar's face fell. He tapped Pierce and McIntyre's shoulders, silently asking to be put down.

At the look on his face, Hawkeye called, "What is it, Radar? You won, we won-"

"Choppers."

The distant sound of helicopters became suddenly audible.

"So much for game day," McIntyre sighed. He tossed Radar the ball. "Nice hit."

"Alright, everybody," Blake squeezed Radar's shoulder, "Let's get to work."

As the patients were helped back to their beds and the staff headed to scrub up, the Colonel handed O'Reilly a piece of paper. "Radar, make an announcement."

"Yes, sir-" Crestfallen, Radar glanced down at the paper, then back at the Colonel.

His face broke into a grin.

Over the clamor of the operating room, the PA crackled to life:

"Attention everyone, Radar here, I've got a notice from Colonel Blake. Ahem: 'The honor of Game Morale Officer is awarded to both Captains Pierce and McIntyre for their zealous preparations-'" The camp echoed with cheers and the Captains grinned at each other across the room as Radar continued, "Since both graciously offered to disqualify themselves from the running for the week pass in Tokyo, it will instead go to the umpire...Colonel Blake.' Over and out."

At the other end of the room, Blake, wearing a navy blue cap with an orange 'I' emblazoned on the brim, met their shocked stares with a wink.

_Unfortunately, celebrations were cut short by the arrival of casualties from the front._

_Though brief, the taste of home was a refreshing change of pace._

_The staff here play hard, but work harder. If your GI happens to pass through this MASH unit, rest easy knowing they're in good hands._

_Here at the 4077, they'll get the best care anywhere._


	4. Mountains and Mole Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares plague Vess, as a visiting General threatens to blow their cover.

A shell smashed into the ground just yards away, sending mud flying into Vess' face. He was rooted in place, unable to drag his feet into motion. He couldn't hear for the whistling, couldn't bring himself to shout.

A man nearby wailed, a high keening scream. Part of his leg was blown away, blood staining the grass. He was just inches away, Vess tried to get to him, hands straining, but the man flinched back.

"Don't touch me," he screamed, "Not with your dirty hands-You did this-" His voice faded to sobs, "You did this..."

Vess finally found a voice, "Let me help, please."

"Get away from me!"

A shell whistled down from above, but Vess couldn't move. He looked down and the ground began to swallow him up. He reached out, desperately, "Please, let me help you."

"Get away-!" The shell whistled closer, closer.

"PLEASE!" Vess thrashed in the cot, nearly knocking themself onto the ground. It took a moment for the room to clear, for eyes to adjust in the lack of light.

They sat up and collided painfully with a low shelf.

"Agh." The pitfalls of temporarily bunking in the stock room.

Squinting at a battered watch, Vess determined the time to be disgracefully early. He struggled to his feet and stumbled into rust-stained fatigues, pulled from the discard pile and issued after it was made official his next stop wouldn't be the stockade.

The sun was still a few hours away from considering a skyward path. A few mounted lanterns lit the compound. Vess tucked hands in pockets and headed on a meandering path across the yard.

"Who's that?" A voice came from behind them, and Vess started.

"I'm just the correspondent. Left my pass in my other pants."

"Oh, Vess," Klinger lowered his rifle. "'Spose there's no use in asking for the password."

Vess shrugged. "Must have missed the memo."

"What are you doing out and about at this time?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"You should volunteer for night sentry duty," Klinger took a seat on a nearby bench and removed his pump, massaging his ankle. "Not sleeping's never been a problem of mine."

"I don't think anyone would trust me with a gun, it's a wonder they let me alone in the stock room." Vess sat next to him. The distant popping of gunfire from the front lines, a few short miles away, was oddly quiet tonight. "Say, when they're not dropping bombs it can be pretty peaceful."

"Yeah, real nice," Klinger nodded. "I'd much rather be in a Toledo traffic jam."

Vess breathed in the cool morning air. "It's missing fireflies. This would be a perfect summer morning if only we had some fireflies."

"Well, we can't go having perfect mornings," Klinger hoisted himself to his feet, "After the war ends, no one'll wanna leave. Now: up, soldier, and back to bed."

They made no move to oblige, and Klinger rolled his eyes, "Fine, stay, do what you want."

As he walked away, he began to whistle. It was a jaunty tune, "Happy Days Are Here Again."

All Vess could hear was descending shells.

Hawkeye set his tray down with a light thump, folding his legs under the table with some difficulty.

McIntyre did the same on the other side of the table, stifling a yawn. "Had the strangest dream that someone was using my head as a nutcracker."

"Next time I'll wake you up first. Hey, looks like we're not the only ones who had a rough night." He jabbed a thumb at Vess, sitting a little further down the table. They rest their chin on a fist, head slipping down only to jerk back to attention. After a moment, their eyes drifted shut and their head drooped again.

Trapper chuckled into his coffee. Radar O'Reilly, carrying a tray laden with one of each of the day's offered slops, approached the table.

"Sirs, mind if I sit?"

"Be our guest, Radar, just keep the volume at a minimum and the food at arm's length."

Radar sat and began eagerly shoveling forkfuls into his mouth. "Heard the news?"

"Radar, it's your job to keep on top of the news. We just sew the bodies back together."

Around bites, Radar explained, "Supply run coming through. General Carlisle overseeing. Ramped up security."

"Such a big ado for our humble little hovel," Hawkeye picked up a spoonful of gray goo and dropped it with a grimace back to the tray. "Where's it headed? The front?"

"The front," Radar nodded, "And a few aid stations along the way." As Vess' head snapped up only to sag again, his eyes flicked to their untouched tray. "Hey, you think he's gonna eat that?"

"For his sake, I hope not," Trapper pushed his own tray away, a hand on his stomach.

"Colonel Blake's making the announcement later," Radar said, reaching out a hand. Vess awoke with a jolt, and the Corporal jerked his hand back as if he'd been stung. "I didn't touch it, honest!"

"Wha-?" Vess rubbed their eyes and reached for their now-cold coffee. "Oh, morning, Radar, Docs."

"You alright, Vess? You look tired."

"Must be your engaging conversation."

Radar still had his eyes on the tray. "Hope you don't mind me asking, but, uh, are you gonna-"

"Go ahead," they pushed it over. "The aroma's quite enough for me."

"While you were nodding off, Radar was telling us about the supply train that's coming through," Trapper said. "Big brass accompaniment. Might be a good story for you."

"I'll keep it in mind." They glanced up and caught the eye of the approaching Major Burns, who returned the look with a sneer. Vess cleared their throat and stood. "I should get going, find me later when you hear more about the shipment."

Pierce glanced up and, seeing Burns, exchanged a knowing look with McIntyre. As Frank sat, he spoke: "C'mon Frank, lay off."

"Lay off what?"

"Yeah, Frank, have you even apologized?"

"For what?"

"You've thrown around some pretty crude language about our newcomer."

Burns reared back, defensive, "I was only saying what everyone was thinking."

"What you and Flagg were thinking, you mean."

"Flagg is a good American trying to enforce good American values. If this Vess wants to be treated like a soldier, he needs to get used to being held to the same standards."

"Your standards are medieval, Frank," Trapper said.

"Your surgical skills aren't much better," Hawkeye added.

"Well, at least I _have_ standards!" Frank picked up his tray and stomped to another table.

"Oh, good one, Frank."

Radar fumed, "It's not fair, him being so rude to Vess."

Pierce turned back to his tray, "I don't know if you've noticed, Radar, but Frank doesn't really have any concept of 'fair' as it pertains to anyone other than himself. Lighten up."

He picked up a heaping spoonful of what he was almost certainly sure was powdered mashed potatoes, and dumped it on one of Radar's trays, "Eat your mush."

A few hours later, the PA crackled to life. "Attention all personnel, Colonel Blake has an announcement. All personnel assemble in the compound. Yes, everyone."

Staff filed from the mess tent and the hospital, squinting in the sunshine. Good-natured pushing and shoving received scowls from the Head Nurse.

Margaret Houlihan herself, hair pulled into a messy ponytail to fit under a surgical cap, was greatly enjoying the sunshine but would be damned if she let anyone know. She found a place near the front of the assembly, glancing to her left to see the new correspondent, who appeared to be asleep standing up.

"To attention, soldier," she snapped.

Vess jumped, eyes flicking sideways. "Just resting my eyes, Major."

"A likely story," Houlihan said, unbelieving. "Next time, lay off the morning drink."

"Alright, everyone, gather up," Colonel Blake called, pulling off his bucket hat to mop his forehead. "Phew, that sun-uh, Radar-"

"Clipboard, sir."

"-clip-thank you, Radar." Blake cleared his throat. "As I'm sure many of you have heard by now, we're getting a visit from General Carlisle and his supply train. This means extending sentry shifts-" A groan came up from the Corporals assigned to the sentry rotation. "-and keeping a tighter eye on our own supplies, so sign out everything you use down to the fingernail. And no horsing around," He made no attempt to disguise the fact this statement was directed in particular at Pierce and McIntyre. "Carlisle has a fair bit of sway at Seoul HQ, he can make things very good or very bad for us, depending on the way his wind blows."

"Ah," Pierce gave a knowing nod, "excess gas. He should cut back on the muck from the mess tent."

A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd.

"There'll be none of that, Pierce," Blake attempted a stern expression, "I want everyone on their best behavior, you copy? Assignments are posted on the bulletin board. Dismissed." As the staff began to disperse, the Colonel called, "Hold back, Vess."

Vess blinked hard to clear sleep from their eyes. "Sir?"

"Now, I don't want you poking around when the General's here, understand?"

"What makes you think I'd do a thing like that?"

The corner of his mouth ticked upwards, "Editor of the Bloomington paper sent me a letter. Said you included some interesting details."

"Just trying to tell a good story, Colonel."

"I don't see what a half-dozen brasseries strung up a flagpole has to do with a baseball game. Just don't do it again, alright? Least not while the General's here." He handed her an envelope.

"Scout's honor, Colonel. What's this?"

"Your column. And compensation."

Vess' eyebrows leapt as they flicked through the papers. It wasn't much, but something was almost always better than nothing. "How'd you manage this arrangement?"

"What newspaper isn't scrambling for reports from the front?" Blake gave a noncommittal shrug. "Go check the board for your assignment." At Vess' expression, he added, "Don't think you get out of it by being one of the Army's most wanted, everybody in camp's got to pull their weight. Dismissed."

Tucking the envelope in their pocket, Vess trudged across the compound with nose buried in the scrap of newspaper.

"I don't believe it."

"Letter from home?" a voice asked, Vess looked up to see Trapper McIntyre standing by the bulletin board.

"No, my editorial debut. They censored me," Vess scanned the page. "I had a great paragraph in here about locking Major Burns in the latrine with a snake."

"Tsk, everyone's a critic. Mind if I give it a read?" Vess handed it over. "Hey, this is pretty good."

"I hope that's not surprise I detect in your tone." Vess leaned forward to find their name on the assignment list. "'Civilian Co-Coordinator,' what's that?"

"Apparently part of the supplies are for local use, got to make sure everybody who wants some gets some. Congratulations, you get the distinction of serving with me."

"My lucky day," Vess replied, voice dripping in sarcasm.

Trap looked down at his bathrobe. "Give me a moment to slip into something a little more uncomfortable and we'll get started."

He headed for the Swamp and Vess found themself taking the same seat on the same bench for the second time that day.

With the sun warming their face, Vess found their head slipping onto their shoulder. They jolted upright as whistling suddenly split the air. A shell hit just feet away, rattling tent poles out of the ground and sending canvas crashing down.

"No-" Vess tried to stand, looked down and saw only bloody stumps. Screaming came from inside the hospital, more shells rained down. Fire bloomed into the sky, "No, please-No-!"

A hand shook them awake. "Vess, hey, Vess-wake up." McIntyre's face loomed out of the blinding light, abruptly Vess' vision cleared to show an untouched camp and a dozen staring faces.

"You alright?" Trap asked, "You were shouting something-"

"Yes, fine," Vess said, quickly getting to their feet, "C'mon."

"Hey-" Trapper walked after, tried to grab Vess' shoulder but was shrugged off. "Would you hold on?"

Vess swiped an arm across their face to clear sweat and was surprised to find a tear slipping down their cheek.

"Wait a minute," as the two reached the edge of camp, McIntyre managed to step in front of Vess and block their path.

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, yes, I'm fine.

"Well, when you say it like that, how could I not believe you." Vess tried to sidestep but Trapper blocked the way. "What is it? Nightmares?" They looked away and Trap's eyes softened, "C'mon, kid, we've all got 'em. With the things we see everyday, they'd be hard to avoid."

Vess hesitated, "They're getting worse."

"For a while?"

"A week or two."

"You've looked dead on your feet for a few days." Before Vess could speak, Trapper added, "You're in a camp full of doctors, we tend to notice that sort of thing. We could rustle up a sedative to knock you out?"

"Thanks, but I'll stick to my usual-gin at night, journo's delight."

"Clever," McIntyre returned to his position at their side, "Hawke and I always have a flea-ridden chair and an extra glass or two of gasoline at the Swamp, if you're ever in need of some company."

Vess managed a smile. "Thanks."

"Let's get moving, those civilians won't coordinate themselves."

A few minutes after sunrise, four cargo trucks rumbled into the compound, accompanied by a half-dozen guards and a jeep toting a sour-faced General Carlisle.

Colonel Blake and a bleary-eyed Radar served as a reception. The General stepped out of the jeep, wobbling slightly as he stood.

"General Carlisle," Blake greeted, "Welcome to MASH 4077. Sorry we couldn't provide a larger welcome wagon, but, uh, well, the staff seems to be otherwise occupied."

The General saluted, shaking Henry's hand with a clammy palm. "Black, I assume."

"It's, uh, Blake, sir," he gave a nervous laugh and tried to surreptitiously wipe his hands on his trousers.

"You need to pave that road out there, Colonel," Carlisle barked, ignoring him, "We had a helluva time getting in. Nearly jostled my jimmies right out of the truck."

"We put in a request to the local homeowner's association, but they said they were too occupied with the war." Blake laughed, realized no one had joined in, and tried to disguise it as a cough. "Say, you all right, General? You look a little green around the gills."

"It's nothing, soldier, I went through far worse back in the Great War." Carlisle tucked his hat under his arm and took a staggering step. He suddenly blanched and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Radar, half-asleep, mumbled, "Straight ahead on your right, sir."

The General staggered in the direction of the officer's latrine. Blake watched him go, bemused, and turned back to the guards.

"Impressive he's already losing his lunch at this hour." Once again, no one laughed. Blake cleared his throat. "Well. Uh. Ahem, right-o, Motor Pool's this way."

The trucks trundled away, one by one.

"That went well," Blake glanced over at Radar, "Corporal, your shirt's on backwards."

"Sorry, Ma," O'Reilly yawned, "I'll fix it after I milk the cows."

Henry slapped him on the elbow, startling him to wakefulness.

A chorus of shouts rose from the direction of Motor Pool.

"Oh, what now?" Blake groaned. "Radar, stay here and keep an eye out for the General. Tell him where we are once he's done with his upchuck, say we've got the situation under control."

"Do we, sir?"

The Colonel hurried away, "Lie!"

As he rounded the corner, he heard a guard repeat, "Identify yourself!"

"Ed Murrow, maybe you've heard of me?"

"Colonel Blake," one of Carlisle's guards stepped forward, "we caught this one snooping around."

"Snooping? I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"This is Vess, our, uh, resident correspondent," Blake interjected, "She-he-uh-sh-"

"He," Vess provided, in a stage whisper.

"He's harmless-"

"Thanks, Colonel."

"-sure, he can be a real nuisance-"

"...Thanks, Colonel."

"-but the stories are good for morale."

The head guard stepped forward. "We'll be keeping a close eye on you, _Vess_. Now, scram."

Vess complied with a sarcastic salute.

"Colonel Blake," the guard addressed Henry, "Major William Bard. I'm the General's head of security for this mission."

"Bard," Blake nodded, "What do you need from us?"

"I'll need the full cooperation of your staff. I'm sure you were made aware of doubling up on sentries, other than that your men are to stay out of our way. No one gets within spitting distance of these trucks without clearing it by me. Understand?"

"Sure thing, Major."

"This is a short operation, we'll be out of your hair in two days-I'm sure we can get through it without too much trouble. Dismissed."

Colonel Blake saluted without thinking, moved away, then paused with a bewildered look. Carlisle caught him as he entered the compound, "Colonel, what was that commotion?"

"Oh, just some light snooping. You're looking better, General."

"Can it, Black. Keep your men under control." He stalked away.

Henry started to correct him, but thought better of it. He turned to see Radar fumbling behind his back for the buttons on his shirt. "Radar, go to bed."

"Yessir," the Corporal shuffled away, still struggling to right his uniform.

Blake glanced up at the sky, currently a murky orange color as the sun meandered above the horizon, and stuck his hands into his pockets. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and tensed, only to roll his eyes: "I can see you, Vess. Or is it Ed Murrow now?"

"Forgive me for trying to have a little fun."

"Can't sleep?"

Vess scoffed.

"No other reason you'd be up, I know I certainly didn't invite you to the General's welcoming ceremony. Can't have our local criminal fraternizing with a three-star general."

Vess stared at him for a long moment. "Colonel, I wanted to ask…" They trailed off. "Never mind. Good night."

The sun managed to heave itself upwards and sent the day's first beams across the camp.

"Good morning."

"Alright, next in line, let's keep it moving!" Major Burns, volunteer Officer of the Day, shouting as if he were herding cattle.

"Keep it down, Frank, you're rattling my eyeballs," Trap called. He gave the next civilian a reassuring smile. "It's alright, I won't shout like him. Here," he handed the woman a bundle of rations, and ushered her down the table.

There Vess and Corporal Kye, an interpreter, conducted wellness checks, collecting requests and complaints.

As the next man in line turned from the table he stumbled, scattering the contents of his bundle across the ground.

"Oh, look at that!" Burns snapped, "Can't give these people anything."

The man glared at the Major, spitting a string of, despite the language barrier, what were almost certainly curses.

"Careful, Frank," McIntyre frowned, "'these people' can hear you."

Vess knelt to help gather the supplies, which were snatched from their hands as the man angrily turned away. They looked at Kye, "Should I ask what he said?"

The interpreter gave a pained smile, "Probably best if you don't. We'll just mark him down as a dissatisfied customer."

Major Bard stalked past. "Burns, keep those men in line."

Frank snapped to attention. "Doing my best, Major."

"Well do better." He caught sight of Vess and narrowed his eyes, "And keep an eye on this one, we caught him hanging around my trucks this morning."

"Oh, don't worry, Bard, I'm _always_ watching him."

The PA boomed: "Captain McIntyre, report to post-op."

Trapper stood, "Think you can handle this, Vess, Kye?"

"We'll manage."

Two dozen civilians later, Kye and Vess packed and catalogued the remaining supplies. Both were sweating under the high afternoon sun.

"I could use a tall glass of something, anything cold," Vess picked up the folding table and headed for the mess tent.

Kye chuckled from behind the armful of supplies. "You'd be hard-pressed to find anything fitting that description." He attempted to stack the bundles neatly outside the door, but gave up after the second tumble.

"I'll settle for a tall glass of lukewarm anything," Vess shouldered open the door, panting, "but I won't be happy about it."

Klinger, wearing a stained white apron over a strappy blue-and-white striped dress, regarded them warily as they entered and stowed the table. "If either of you get smart and ask for a glass of lemonade, I'll throw my pump."

"Rough day?" Vess asked.

"Everyone seems to think I'm a magician who can whip up any desired dish at a moment's notice, but I'm only working with what I've got-and I haven't got any lemons."

"How about ice?" Kye asked.

"'How about ice,'" Klinger mocked, "What do I look like, the head chef at the Imperial?"

"Alright," Kye held up his hands, "sorry I asked."

"You'll get day-old coffee and like it." Klinger thrust two mugs in their direction.

Through the mess tent door stormed General Carlisle, looking significantly more hale and hearty than he had that morning, but just as sour. He scanned the room, eyes stopping at a table to the left of the entrance. Muttering something to a guard, he crossed his arms.

The man stomped over to the table. "Alright, everybody, clear out." As the occupants raised protests, he continued, "The General doesn't sit with enlisted men, scram."

Vess finished filling their coffee mug and moved aside so Kye could do the same.

"All for one for Uncle Sam," they scowled, watching the General, his guards, and the seemingly ever-present Major Bard sit at the newly vacated table. "C'mon, there's two seats over here."

The two made their way to a table on the other side of the furnace, thankfully extinguished in the summer heat.

"Thanks for your help today." Kye nodded, sipping his coffee with a grimace at the quality, or lack thereof. "You been with the unit long?"

"Six months," he replied. "Before that I served at an aid station near the front. This is a welcome change, there are days here we get the luxury of being bored."

Vess snorted. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"My parents come from a village a few miles from here. I got so fed up with nothing ever happening, I went to Seoul for school. Once the war broke out, and I joined up, I began to miss that boredom very much."

"I guess I should've valued tedium more."

"Never too late to start."

"You're right, General," Major Bard spoke at a volume that ensured every occupant of the tent heard him, "There _should_ keep the officers' mess separate from enlisted. The way it's meant to be-we shouldn't have to mix with the lower grades."

Kye rolled his eyes.

Vess told themself to let it go-unfortunately, they didn't listen.

"You're right," they called, "It's hard to eat when we're blinded by the reflection off your brass."

Bard glared daggers in their direction. "Some soldiers don't know when to hold their tongues. The sooner we're out of this dump, the better."

"Here, here!"

A chorus of laughter erupted across the tent.

"That's enough," the General barked. "Learn your place!"

"Well, as a correspondent, I've got a pressing question," Vess replied, "Did they take your heart in exchange for your stars, or did you give it up willingly?"

The remark was met with a scattering of hoots and whistles, though most of the bystanders suddenly occupied themselves in taking up as little space as possible.

After a moment, the General slammed their mug on the table with enough force to chip the handle. "Identify yourself, soldier!"

"That's _Vess_ , General," Bard sneered, "Caught him around the trucks this morning."

"On your feet!" Carlisle snapped.

Vess took a long draught of their coffee, set down their mug, and stood.

"You think you're clever, soldier?"

"Only moderately so."

"Come here."

Vess didn't move.

"I said _here_."

"Better do what he says," Kye muttered.

Once at the General's table, Vess gave a demure smile. "You rang?"

"Do you value your country, soldier?"

"Sure, sir."

"Why are you here, soldier?"

"I'm here to help, sir."

Bard snorted. "You, help? Your incompetence would get men killed on the battlefield."

Vess bristled. "That so?"

"I've got half a mind to write you up."

"Are you sure you can spare that much? I thought it'd be fully occupied by general nonsense."

In a split second, the General's hand flashed out and struck, snapping their head to the side.

An audible gasp came from the onlookers as Vess staggered back against the furnace, a mottled patch on their jaw.

"There's your _place_ , soldier," Bard guffawed.

Vess shook their head to clear it, throwing their shoulders back. They stepped forward. "I'm not _your soldier_. And this" They snatched Carlisle's mug, "is what I think of your war." The smashed it on the dirt floor, sending glass flying onto the General's boots. The door slammed in their wake.

After a moment, Klinger came hurrying after. "Say, that was some show. You're just crazy enough to get a discharge-let me take your place, I'll give you money, lemonade, anything you want!"

Vess' lips spread in a wicked smile, which was replaced by a wince as they raised a hand to their aching jaw. "I might just be able to get you that Section 8."

"What the hell did I tell you, Vess?" Blake hollered, "Not to pester the General, not get on his nerves-"

"You only told me not to ask questions-"

"Now I hear you're causing a scene in the mess tent, riling him up, _smashing dishes-_ "

"Colonel-"

"I stuck my neck out for you, vouched for you. Is this your way of staying out of trouble? Harassing the big brass? Because you're really mucking it up, soldier."

"Colonel, if anything has been made painfully clear to me, it's that I'm not a soldier. I will abide by your rules, I will try to keep my nose out of trouble-but I won't be a soldier."

Blake set his jaw. "You have anything to say about your little performance?"

"No, sir, only that I stand by what I said."

The Colonel heaved a deep sigh. "Congratulations, you earned yourself a record for this. Now, get out of my sight. And for god's sake, put a cold compress on that."

Vess left without another word.

"Sir, the General-"

"Send him in, Radar."

O'Reilly let the General and his ilk file past, and took his seat at the desk. He could hear raised voices, mostly belonging to the General. After several long minutes, Radar couldn't resist and ducked below the window to press his ear against the door.

"-your complaints will be noted, General, and disciplinary action will be taken against that individual."

"It damn well better be."

"General, before you go, may I say something else? Don't strike a man under my command again, or it won't be your mug that gets shattered on the floor."

Radar's mouth fell open. He barely had time to scramble backwards before Major Bard, face drained of color, threw open the door. General Carlisle pushed past, face set like he was chewing on a lemon. They made it just outside the door before a clamor arose.

The Corporal hurried after to see a crowd of staff surrounding the two men, whistling and carrying on.

"Hey, nice brass, General!"

"They should have a separate camp for enlisted men!"

"I know my place-in the nearest nurse's bed!"

Struck dumb by the scene, Radar almost didn't hear the sudden roar of an engine in the compound. It seemed to be getting louder, and was now accompanied by a flurry of screams from the other end of camp.

"What the-?"

The object of the commotion became abruptly visible as one of the supply trucks hurtled, full speed, around the compound. From the cab, a grinning Klinger shouted, "Sayonara, General!" and hit the ground rolling just before the truck smashed into the Officer's Latrine, sending splinters and scraps of toilet paper fluttering into the air.

Vess doubled over with laughter. Radar tried unsuccessfully to stifle his giggles.

McIntyre appeared out of the crowd, bertaing Vess in a faux-stern voice: "I leave for 20 minutes, and you start a fight with a general?"

Blake gave a bemused smile.

"Well, General," he said, "would you like me to write up the whole camp?"

_A few short notes from MASH 4077:_

_After a brief stopover, General Carlisle and his several trucks of supplies decided to cut his visit short and carry on to the front._

_The camp's staff spent a fair summer days digging a new latrine after an unfortunate accident with a runaway truck._

_And, I, your correspondent, ever the patriot, had the privilege of helping the cause by_ _being volunteered_ [CUT FROM THE PUBLISHED VERSION] _volunteering for three straight weeks of bedpan scouring._

_All in a day's work here at the 4077._


	5. Notes from Nowheresville

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vess is thrust into the role of stand-in nurse/stenographer, and finds themself at odds with Maj. Burns.

"Colonel Blake?"

"Yo," Blake called, reading a magazine with his feet propped on the desk.

"Are you in?"

"Depends on who's calling, Radar."

"It's Major Houlihan, sir."

"Can she hear me talking to you?"

"Yes, I can."

Blake sighed and tossed the magazine aside. "Yes, I'm in."

Houlihan entered, jaw set, but before she could speak Henry interrupted, "Let me guess: Pierce. Or McIntyre-or both. Tied your boots together? Filled Burns' helmet with gravy? Rearranged your tent?"

"It's the entire camp, sir-"

"The entire camp rearranged your tent? That's impressive, I didn't they had it in 'em to coordinate such an endeavor."

"Sir," Houlihan continued, eyes narrowed, "the level of unprofessionalism in which I and my nurses must work is unacceptable. Our standards have slipped so far I daresay they're nonexistent! How are we able to set an example for our patients when _certain doctors_ refuse to follow uniform regulations and harass my nurses in plain view? Not to mention their constant, childish pranks!"

"Major, I'll agree the pranks get old-just the other day, they stole my best bottle of gin and replaced it with saline solution. Drank a whole glass before I noticed. But the guys are just trying to keep morale up. You may be enjoying the war, but the rest of us are finding it a bit tedious. We have to find relief where we can."

"I understand that, sir, but things are getting out of hand."

"C'mon, Houlihan, what do you want me to do? We ran the film on uniform code last month, and no one showed. I can't force the staff to come."

"Yes, you can, sir-make it mandatory viewing!"

"Alright, maybe I can make them come, but I can't make them watch. Or listen."

"You could if you had a spine, Colonel," the Major snapped, "Instead of letting the men walk all over you!"

"If you know the secret to capturing their attention, by all means, Major, organize a coup. Can't even get them to pay attention to the VD films, something they're intimately acquainted with."

A thunderous crash, punctuated by the crack of breaking glass, came from the other side of the hospital.

"What the hell was that?"

"My money's on racoons," Blake said, indifferent.

"There are no racoons in Korea, Colonel!" Houlihan pushed through the swinging doors with enough force to slam them against the cabinets.

Blake watched her go, reaching for his magazine. "Not after you're done with 'em, there won't be."

"The supply room-" Radar said quickly, leading the way.

Throwing open the door revealed a pile of boxes, blankets, and smashed glass jars heaped atop a stirring figure.

"Damn," it groaned, trying and failing to sit up.

"This is exactly the sort of thing I mean!" Houlihan shouted, "This-this unprofessionalism!"

"Sorry, Major," Vess blinked hard, pressing a hand against their temple, "Thought I'd see what happened if I used my head as a battering ram."

Houlihan heaved a furious sigh, nostrils flaring. "You're bleeding, soldier."

"Am I?" Vess said, with mock surprise.

Stepping carefully around the shattered glass, Houlihan examined the gash on the top of Vess' head. "Just a flesh wound. O'Reilly."

"Sir?"

"Get over here, apply pressure to this. I'll get disinfectant to bandage this up." She left without another word.

Radar hesitantly pressed a hand against Vess' head, prompting a wince of pain. "Sorry, sir, just doing what the Major-"

"I know, Radar," Vess swallowed a wave of nausea. "And I 'spose if I were a better man, I'd thank you."

"Were you really using your head as a battering ram?"

Vess snorted. "Not on purpose, Radar. I just...well, I guess I got a bit overzealous as I woke up."

"Oh, I do that sometimes, too," Radar shuffled his feet, "One time I dreamed I was late for dinner and running down the driveway back home, my ma dumped a glass of water on my head, and I woke up and saw I was in the showers."

Houlihan reappeared as Vess laughed a bit too hard, resulting in another wave of pain.

"Careful, soldier," she snapped. "Can't have you spilling what little brains you have left."

"A very good morning to you as well, Major."

Houlihan bit back a small smile. "You're lucky you didn't destroy any valuable supplies." The stern expression returned, "We need to find you other quarters, since you clearly can't be trusted near our supplies."

"No opposition here, the dust and disinfectant was starting to get to me."

"Oh," Radar said, looking toward the ceiling. After a moment, "Choppers."

A voice over the PA announced: "Incoming casualties. It's a big one, folks. All shifts scrub up."

Houlihan finished applying the bandage to Vess' head, pressing a little harder than necessary. The patient winced. "Don't cause any more commotion," she ordered, "And stay out of the way."

Vess gave a lazy salute. "Yes, ma'am."

"Radar, get Major Burns, he'll need extra hands for triage."

Colonel Blake, passing the room, peered inside, "You get those racoons under control, Major?"

Houlihan glowered and pushed past. Blake chuckled, then for the first time seemed to notice the mess, "Aw, gee, Vess, clean that up, will you? Then scrub up, we'll need help prepping bodies."

"Sir, I'm not-"

"That's an order-unless you'd like to extend your bedpan duty indefinitely?"

Vess cleared their throat. "Scrubbing up, sir."

The hours passed in a blur of blood and suffering. When Vess finally stumbled to the sink to wash their hands for what felt like the thousandth time -though thankfully the last, for the moment- the sun was starting to set.

They didn't realize how violently their hands were shaking until they fumbled the bar of soap into the drain and had to grab the edge of the sink to keep upright.

"Steady," Pierce, at the next sink, said, wearily pulling his own scrubs off and hurling them in the direction of the nearest laundry basket. He retrieved the soap and placed it back in their hand. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it." A sudden bark of laughter at the absurdity of the statement seemed even to startle him, "Or should I say _do_ worry that you'll get used to it."

Vess, scrubbing their hands in silence for a moment, managed to find a voice. "McIntyre said something about you boys having a supply of gin in these trying times."

"Consider this your reservation for a table in the Swamp." Pierce finished scrubbing his hands and tossed the towel vaguely toward the bin. "Après-vous."

Before Vess could move, Radar stuck his head in the door, "Vess, you're needed in post-op."

"Me?"

"Yeah, bed seven is asking for you."

"But why me?"

"Radar, can it wait?" Pierce asked, keeping an eye on Vess to make sure they didn't tremble themself to the floor.

"No, sir, he asked for him specifically." With that, Radar disappeared.

"Well," Vess said, drying their hands. "I can't imagine why someone wants an audience with little 'ol me."

"Maybe they've got a question about the oxford comma."

In post-op, Vess made their way down the aisle to the patient in bed seven. "You wanted to see me?"

The soldier couldn't have been older than 19. He had a bandage over one side of his face, both hands tightly wound in gauze. "One 'a the nurses said you were a journalist?"

Vess nodded.

"If it's not too much to ask, you think you could write a letter to my pa? Tell him I'm alright?"

"Oh," Vess smiled, "well, sure." Embracing their role, they'd taken to carrying a notepad and pencil, which they pulled from a back pocket as they sat on a nearby crate. "Just tell me what to write."

"Well, I wouldn't really know what to say," the patient looked away, embarrassed. "I was never real good with words. I thought, you being a writer and all-"

"I'm sure your pa won't care, he'll just be happy to hear from you. Let's start with your name, huh? Mine's Vess."

"Miles. Miles Kincaide."

"Well, Miles, I've always found the best way to start a letter was 'Dear so-and-so,' so let's try that." They began to write, reading as they went, "'Dear Pa'-You want to tell him where you are?"

Miles nodded.

"Alright, 'Dear Pa, I'm at the MASH 4077. Sorry for the different handwriting, one of the staff is writing this for me. I've been wounded but I'm alright.' How's that sound?"

"Oh, real good," Miles grinned as best he could around the bandage.

"Well, uh-" Vess wasn't sure how to proceed. They thought for a moment. "You want to tell him about how things have been?"

"I dunno if I should, he don't worry much but I don't wanna make him upset. Oh, I know: it's been real hot here, reminds me of home, back in California."

They scribbled it down. "Go on."

"Ask him if my sister's doing alright. Helen, she took it pretty hard when I got drafted. She'll wanna know if I'm okay. And our dog-" Miles blushed, "but that's silly, isn't it."

"Not at all, what's his name?"

"Jack," he smiled sheepishly, "I keep a picture of him in my wallet, but I can't-" His bandaged hands fumbled at the pouch of his belongings, hanging under his cot.

"Here," Vess reached for it and extracted the wallet. Flipping it open, they retrieved the photo. "Now that's a handsome pup."

They held it up for Miles to see. His lip began to quiver. "I miss-" His voice faltered, a tear slipping down his cheek, "Boy, I'd like to go home."

Vess gaave the boy's arm a reassuring squeeze. "You'll be there before you know it, Miles. And I'm sure Jack'll be thrilled to see you. Let's see what we've got here."

They read back the letter. "Want to add anything?"

Miles sniffled. "Nah, pa doesn't like to read much."

"Alright, then, we'll sign it 'Your loving son, Miles.'"

"Say, that's real nice," the soldier in the next bed said, "Could you write one for me? To my wife?"

"Can you write my ma?"

As a chorus of 'me, too's rose, Vess laughed and held up their hands, "Hold it, hold it, fellas, I've only got the one pencil." They tore the sheet of paper from the pad and laid it on the table next to Miles' bed. Patting his arm, they said, "You really started something here, kid."

He gave a teary-eyed smile.

"Alright," Vess stood, "One at a time, who's next?"

A half-dozen letters later, Vess knocked on the door of the Swamp.

"Who is it?" Pierce called in a sing-song voice.

"I called ahead for a reservation." They pulled open the door.

"Ah, Mr. Cronkite," Hawkeye half-turned. "Such a privilege to have you in our humble digs. Might I offer you a glass of swill?"

Vess nodded gratefully, flexing their left hand. "My fingers feel like they've been waltzing for hours."

"Sounds like you've started a new position as camp secretary."

"I wouldn't want to tread on Radar's toes." They accepted the glass, took a sip and grimaced, "Ugh, good thing my taste buds are disposable."

"What happened to your head?" Pierce asked, laying back on his cot with an exhausted groan.

Vess sat in the chair by Trapper's bunk, propping a boot on the furnace. "Bit of a tizzy in the supply room. Major Houlihan wants to relocate me somewhere with fewer things to break."

"Great idea, if only we had somewhere else to put you."

"I'll accept nothing less than a bed with the finest linen and softest pillows," Vess settled back into the chair, "Room service is optional, but strongly desired."

Hawkeye snorted.

After a pause, Vess asked, "Do you really get used to it? The blood and...everything?"

Pierce lay with his eyes closed for a moment, then propped himself up on his elbows. "After a time. Well, I suppose you never really get _used_ to it, but it fades into the background. Part of you always remains in that state of horrified shock, but if we indulged it and screamed and cried and confined ourselves to bed in despair, we'd never get anything done. And those boys certainly won't stop coming."

"I've seen men die," Vess murmured, "At the front. Seen them killed right in front of me-but this...I haven't seen anything like this."

"It makes it worse when they're so close to life, doesn't it?" Hawkeye gave a wry smile, "You go into an operation so certain you'll save the kid, only to have him die right under your nose."

Vess stared into the glass before downing the contents.

Pierce rolled off the bunk to fix himself another drink. "How long were you at the line?"

"Came over from San Francisco in February. Made my way around, visiting aid stations and avoiding patrols. All told, made it about five months," they glanced at their shoulder, "before I got myself into a spot of trouble and found myself here."

"Five months," Hawke repeated. "You probably saw some terrible things up there."

Vess' eyes took on a hardened look.

"Nothing bad enough that'd convince you to pack it up and go home?"

"When I first came over, I thought-I don't know-that it'd be an _adventure_ ," they said the word with distaste, "Then I saw the real war, not the one they're telling us about stateside, but the real beast. And I realized anything was better than sitting around twiddling my thumbs."

"You think coming here was a mistake?"

Vess paused. "The way I did it, yeah. But being here, the things I've seen and done-I don't know where else I should be."

Pierce heaved a sigh. "In my bed in Crab Apple Cove. That's where I should be." He held a hand out for Vess' glass, and they handed it over without a word. Returning it, he added, "Well, I certainly question your methods but can't fault your motive."

The side of Vess' mouth twitched. "Glad to hear that."

The door opened. "Oh, great."

"Frank, welcome, welcome-we were just entering the drinking portion of the evening, care for a glass?"

"Of that slop? I'd rather drink boot polish." Burns stomped to his bunk and began to pull off his boots.

"I'm sure I've got a bottle lying around here, somewhere…" Pierce made a production of looking around the messy tent.

"Evening, Major," Vess said, absently laying a hand on the welt that had risen on the back of their head.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Burns snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about! How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"

"Calm down, Frank," Hawkeye said, "Have a drink."

"I will _not_!" He grabbed his boots and all but ran from the tent in his socks.

Pierce watched him go. "I'd say he's usually not this touchy, but I'd hate to lie to you."

"You'd be surprised at the number of people who have that reaction to me." Vess finished their drink and waved off a refill. "I don't take it personally. Thanks for the drink, Doc."

Vess had finally managed to drift off when a hurried rapping came at the supply room door.

"Vess, are you awake?"

"I am now," Vess groaned. "Who's that?"

"Radar," said Radar, "You remember Kincaide, that patient you wrote the letter for?"

A flash of panic sent Vess bolt upright. Their head once again collided with a low shelf, sending tears of pain to their eyes. "Miles? What is it? Is he alright?"

"Oh, yes, sir, he and a few others are shipping out tonight, and he wanted to say goodbye."

"Just a minute," Vess pulled on their boots, stumbling to the door.

"Sorry to wake you," the Corporal said, leading the way to the compound.

"That's alright, Radar, I appreciate it."

Corpsmen, under the supervision of McIntyre, assisted patients into the transport bus.

Scanning the crowd, Radar said, "He must already be on board."

Vess climbed up, following a soldier with his arm in a sling.

"Hey, Vess," a voice greeted them, "Thanks for that letter."

A chorus of 'yeah's and 'thank you's arose from the cots on either side of the aisle.

"Happy to help, boys," they said.

"Vess, back here," a familiar voice called, and they spotted a bandaged hand waving from the back of the bus.

"Well, well, Miles," Vess leaned over the boy's bunk, smiling, "Looks like you've got your ticket home. Just a quick stop at Tokyo General, then you'll be back stateside."

"I've never been to Tokyo before."

"You'll like it. But you better stay out of trouble, you hear? Anything happens to you and your pa will hunt me down-he's got a sample of my handwriting."

Miles snickered. "I wanted to say thank you before I left. I won't forget what you did."

"Happy to help, Miles."

"I wouldn't have made it without you," he grabbed their hand as best he could with his bandaged fingers, "You're angels here, all of you."

Vess squeezed his hand, gently. "Take care of yourself, kid. Drop me a letter when you get back, would ya?"

"Here," Miles fumbled a small scrap of paper into their hand, "I want you to have this."

"But...don't you want-"

"It's okay," he gave an earnest grin, "I'll see him soon."

Vess stared down at the photo of the little dog and blinked back tears, grateful for the bus' dark interior. "Thank you, Miles." They cleared their throat. "Now, get out of here."

Standing up, Vess addressed the bus' occupants, "That goes for all of you. We don't want to see you back, alright?"

The words were met with cheers and laughs as Vess made their way off the bus. Radar met them outside and pretended not to see them wipe a sleeve across their eyes.

McIntyre finished loading the last passenger and gave the driver the all clear. He came to stand next to Radar and Vess, and the three watched the bus drive into the night.

"You wanted to see me, Colonel?"

"Vess, come in," Blake set his coffee aside and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "I just got an angry call from one of General Carlisle's colleagues back at Seoul HQ. Had a lot to say about your antics during his visit last week."

"Hope it wasn't too serious."

"It's not my delicate sensibilities you should worry about. In an official capacity, I'm telling you to watch yourself. Unless you want certain brass to start asking questions, you can't keep pulling stunts like this."

Vess met his gaze, eyebrow raised. "That's your official recommendation, sir?"

"It is. Unofficially, there were quite a few individuals around camp that rather enjoyed the display. 'Course I couldn't identify anyone."

"Of course."

"Don't think you're off the hook, a few more weeks of bedpan and KP should teach you to keep yourself in line."

"A few-" At his expression, Vess pursed their lips. "Yes, sir."

"Now, I know your arrival at camp wasn't the smoothest, so I need you to answer me honestly. What happened in the supply room?"

Vess was taken aback. "Sir?"

"Is somebody giving you trouble?"

"What?"

"Is it Burns?"

"Oh, no, I-got disoriented. I haven't been sleeping well."

Blake leaned back in his chair. "No one in their right mind sleeps well around here. You sure everything's alright?"

Vess gave him a wry smile. "Colonel, would I lie to you?"

Henry rolled his eyes. "Go on-get out of here."

They saluted, still smiling, and left the office.

The day before, Vess had stumbled back to the supply room after an early morning meander around the compound to find it wasn't empty.

"Major Burns," they said, surprised.

The Major whirled around, "You! What are you doing here? Snooping around again?"

Vess raised an eyebrow and pointed to the far wall. "My bed."

"Oh, yes, well-"

"What are you doing, may I ask?" Vess began to step further into the room, eyes set on their bed, and Burns clutched his clipboard to his chest.

"I'm conducting inventory-Don't come any closer!"

Vess raised their hands. "Alright, sir."

Burns attempted to turn back to what he was doing while simultaneously keeping an eye on the correspondent. Fumbling, he knocked a can from the shelf.

Without thinking, Vess reached forward to catch it, and Burns flailed out with his clipboard.

"I said stay _back_!"

The clipboard caught Vess on the chin, sending them careening into a shelf and a mess of boxes, crates, and glass jars raining down atop them. Dazed, they watched Burns, pale-faced, dart from the room.

A few sluggish moments later, the door was thrown open.

"This is exactly the sort of thing I mean!" Major Houlihan began to shout.

"Ahem."

Vess, sitting in their usual position under the tree just outside of camp, looked up to see Major Burns standing above them. A few hours had passed since their audience with Blake. Evidently, word had gotten around.

"Major." Vess closed the book, setting it on the grass beside them.

"You didn't tell the Colonel what...happened."

"I didn't," Vess affirmed.

He warily looked them up and down. "Why? What's your angle?"

"My what?"

"What do you want? What's your price?"

Vess screwed up their eyes, trying to determine if he was being serious. "How 'bout you buy me a cup of joe in the mess tent."

He recoiled. "What sort of sick game are you playing?"

"Boy, you ask a lot of questions. I thought I was the correspondent here." They gathered their book and stood. "No hard feelings, Burns."

Burns eyed them suspiciously. "You don't mind that I called you-the things I called you?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but you weren't the first to think of 'em, Burns. You don't like me, I get it-you don't have to. We'll just stay out of each other's way." They extended a hand, "Alright?"

Burns looked between the hand and Vess' face for a long moment. Vess dropped their hand to their side.

"Fine. But don't expect me to get all buddy-buddy. I'm a Major, after all, and you're merely a...a _civilian_."

He stalked away.

Deciding to take what they could get, Vess flipped open the book to the small photo, smiling at the large brown eyes staring back. Then they turned and walked with a slow, meandering step back into camp.


	6. Hollow Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under fire and running low on supplies and patience, the staff of the 4077 are forced into an impossible choice: risk life and limb to go for help, or tough it out with what they have.

The first shot rang out just after the morning bugle and, mistaken for a jeep backfiring, was largely ignored.

A notable exception came when Radar O'Reilly, feeding stolen vegetables to a cageful of pet rabbits that officially didn't exist, thought he heard something. He suddenly straightened and looked around, eyes lingering on the slope of a nearby hill, before resuming the morning feeding.

The second shot came as the unit filed into the mess for breakfast, impacting harmlessly into a tree at the edge of camp.

"The war sounds closer every day," Frank Burns commented.

Margaret Houlihan, sitting a little closer than was strictly appropriate, whispered back, "Isn't it terribly exciting?"

"Good morning, Majors," Pierce raised his voice as he slid into a seat across from them.

"Hope we weren't interrupting anything." McIntyre followed. "Say, Frank, you reply to that letter from your wife yet?"

Houlihan bristled. A stammering Burns attempted damage control.

"Oh, Margaret, it was nothing-she just-well, it's our anniversary soon, and-"

"I don't want to hear about your damn anniversary," she spat, snatching up her tray and extracting herself from his grasp.

"Ta-ta, Margaret," Pierce called.

"Don't worry, I'm sure Frank'll say nothing but nice things about you," McIntyre added.

" _You two_ ," Burns scowled, hurrying out of the tent after her.

Across the camp, the PA crackled: "Doctors Pierce and McIntyre, report to post-op."

Hawkeye sighed. "Didn't even get a chance to dig into my morning slop."

The two made their way across the compound. Around a yawn, McIntyre took a sip of his coffee.

"Ah, nice and chewy," he remarked.

Another shot -to them the first, in reality the third- rang out. It struck the cup in Trapper's hand, shattering it. For a moment Trap stood, staring, handle still gripped in his fingers. "And explosive."

"Sniper!" Pierce crouched. "C'mon, get inside."

The two stumbled across the compound, suddenly deserted as personnel scrambled for cover. They headed for the nearest tent, the showers, and ducked inside.

Pierce grabbed for McIntyre's arm, squinting in the dim light of the flickering bulb.

McIntyre pulled himself free, "I'm fine, Hawke," he insisted, "I'm fine-would you let go 'a me?"

He chucked the remains of his coffee cup against the wooden shower. It thunked to the ground. "We should make a run for it."

"And get a few new pockets stitched into our pants?"

A flurry of shots punctuated the words.

"We can't just sit here," McIntyre opened the door a crack, peering out.

"See anything?"

"He's on the hill." A glint of metal shone just beyond the helicopter pad. "Any visiting choppers will have a hard time of it."

"Think Radar's managed to get help?"

A sudden crash of thunder drowned out Pierce's reply.

"Say, can you speak up? It's a bit loud on my end-well, I-look, it's not my fault! Why don't you try and tell 'im to quiet down?"

"Radar," Blake, crouched under his desk, peeked out at the clerk, "you get anyone?"

Radar was huddled against the wall, scowling at the receiver to reply, "I'm trying, but they're not being very cooperative."

"Tell 'em we're getting more holes poked in us than a slice of swiss cheese!" A bullet came through the office window, bringing down the blankets that had been tacked up as makeshift blackout curtains.

Radar yelped, shielding his head from a shower of broken glass.

Blake scrambled across the floor and snatched the phone from his hand, "You get somebody down here on the double, we're a hospital, don't you know!" He listened for a moment, "I-huh? This _is_ Colonel Blake-now, there's no need-just get some guns here, would ya?" He hung up the phone. "Radar, help me with these."

The two struggled to raise the curtains against the growing wind.

"Go make sure they've covered-"

"-the windows in the OR, yes, sir."

"Then get HQ on the phone again, keep calling until you get someone. I'll be in post-op-" Another shot ricocheted off the outside wall, followed by an immediate clap of thunder. "Great, just what we need."

"Thunder," Radar stumbled to his feet, ducking to keep beneath the windows. "I don't like thunder, sir."

"Ignore it," Blake suggested, crawling on his hands and knees toward the door, "Focus on the gunfire."

As they passed through the clerk's office, the exterior door blew open and two figures dove inside.

All four let out a startled shout that quickly turned to nervous laughter.

"Oh, Pierce, McIntyre, glad you could make it."

"Henry, Radar, fancy meeting you here."

"Hawkeye, go to post-op and get the patients into cover. Trapper, help Radar cover those windows."

They hastened through the door, colliding with Vess, coming the other way.

"Who's shooting at us?" they asked.

"A dissatisfied customer," Pierce caught their arm and turned them around. "Come make yourself useful."

In the operating room, McIntyre and Radar fought against the tempest to cover the windows. A clap of thunder sounded and the clerk jumped, nearly ripping the blanket back down.

"Careful!" Trapper snapped, reaching over to grab the corner.

"Sorry."

Another two shots rang out, and the men ducked.

"Get the other one-" As they secured the next window, several loud bangs came from the compound. The lights flickered and died. "Bastard took out the generator."

Shuffling through the dark, Radar caught a foot on a table and went crashing to the ground. Another deafening crash, this time thunder, shook the building.

"Watch it!" There was no response. "Radar?"

A corner of one of the blankets had come free and was flapping in the wind. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room, McIntyre saw a human-shaped heap on the floor.

He felt his way over, kneeling down, "Radar, you alright?"

"Fine, sorry-tripped-" The clerk reached to adjust his glasses, his hand trembling. "Boy, that's loud, huh?"

The breath McIntyre had been holding was released in a huff. "On your feet, kid, they need us in post-op." He helped Radar to his feet, replacing the clerk's cap on his head.

"Colonel Blake told me to call for help-"

"Then do it." Trapper gave him a shove in the right direction. "Just be careful, last thing we need right now is to fix your broken neck."

Across the hospital tent, Vess had a wounded soldier by the arm, helping him to the ground beneath his cot. "And for you, the premier Cave Suite."

A bed over, Pierce was doing the same. "It's very exclusive, you should count yourself lucky you got in."

"Enough chatter," Blake knelt to adjust a pillow beneath a patient's bandaged leg. "Where's Burns, dammit?-we need extra hands in here."

"I'll give you three guesses," Pierce replied, "You'll notice our esteemed Head Nurse is also notably absent."

"Should someone go get them?" Vess asked.

Another barrage of fire echoed outside, and everyone flinched.

"I'd wait for the rain to die down, hate to get my boots wet."

"Hold it," the Colonel looked to the window, listening, "That didn't sound like any sniper rifle I know."

"Didn't know you were so intimately acquainted with North Korean weaponry, Henry," Trapper spoke up from the doorway, nodding as Pierce waved him over.

"Maybe it's our relief."

"I doubt it, Radar's still fighting to get through."

_Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat_

"You may-"

_Crack-crack_

Pierce's head rose, "Either we're dealing with a heavily-armed octopus, or he's got a friend up there."

Blake swore. "Alright, everybody, hold tight." He rose to his feet, only to dive back down as another _rat-atat-atat_ sounded, nearly drowned out by a roar of thunder. "Aw, why'd it have to be raining?"

A few hours of intermittent gunfire had passed. Each time someone dared to peek out the window, a sudden _crack_ of a passing bullet forced them back down.

Patients and nurses talked in lowered tones, crammed into every available inch of floor. There was a heavy sense of unease in the air. No one wanted to raise their voice, afraid a noise would earn them a bullet.

Vess occupied themself with their notepad, offering to write letters and telling every absurd little story they could think of. Pierce and McIntyre attempted to play a round of poker with an old deck of cards found at the back of a desk drawer, though they found it difficult as a third of the cards were missing.

"Anybody seen Radar?" Blake asked.

There was a rumble of thunder. No one answered.

"Right."

Blake returned to the clerk's office, looking around. In a whisper, he called, "Radar?" He peered under the desk and felt slightly foolish when he saw it was empty.

Scattered bullets smashed into the outer wall and sent him ducking. "Stop shooting up my camp!"

There was a sudden scuffling noise behind him.

"I didn't mean it-" he turned, hands up. "Ah-there you are, I've been looking all over."

The clerk was prone on the floor under his cot, fatigues covered in dust.

"Radar?"

The ground shook with another deafening clap of thunder. At the sound, O'Reilly pushed himself flat against the wall and closed his eyes.

"C'mon, Radar, it's just a little thunder. A fair amount of thunder-and a fair amount of gunfire. Alright, you make a fair point." Blake sighed, settling into a seated position. "Hey, all this rain means we won't have to wash the jeeps for a month."

Radar said nothing. Blake was suddenly struck by how young the man was.

"If the river rises, the camp'll get a nice spring cleaning." The Colonel felt the need to fill the silence. "With the filth of these people, god knows we could use it."

No reply.

"We once had a pretty bad storm back in Bloomington." Blake settled back against the desk. "Tornado touched down just a few miles from the house. No cellar, Lorraine took the kids to the bathroom. Said she'd heard about the saving power of crouching in a tub. We were all hunkered down-and what a pain it was to get the kids to sit still-then Lorraine shouts, she says, 'We forgot the dog!'

"I'd never cared for the mutt, he always chewed on my slippers. But she insisted, so I went out to find him in the yard. Cursed Lorraine the whole time. It would serve her right if I got sucked up into a tornado and deposited somewhere warmer, and drier, with a steady supply of booze." He gave a wistful sigh, then slowly shook his head. "Happened to glance upwards and, you know, Radar, I've never seen the sky so beautiful. The clouds were churning, all jet black, with streaks of lightning so bright they were blue." He trailed off.

After a moment, a quiet voice asked, "Did you find him?"

"Hm?"

"Your dog, did you get 'im?"

"I did-and he never thanked me, ungrateful mutt." Blake gave a half-smile. "Would you come out from under there?"

Hesitantly, Radar clambered out, stuffed bear clutched tight in one elbow.

"Looks like you lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner." Blake attempted to brush some of the dust off the clerk's shirt. "Did you manage to contact HQ?"

"No luck yet, sir," Radar wiped a sleeve across his nose.

"Well, we're managing so far, guess we'll just have to hold out a little longer." Henry looked at the clerk for a moment, then gave him a sharp pat on the back. "Better go check on the others."

"Yes, sir." Radar slung the strap of the field telephone over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Radar?"

"Sir?"

"Better leave the bear."

"Colonel Blake!" Immediately upon reentering post-op, Blake was ambushed by a shaken Major Burns, "Colonel, we're under attack!"

"You don't say, Frank," Blake pushed past him. "Just where have you been?"

"He was with me, Colonel," Houlihan quickly supplied.

"And where might that be, Major?" Pierce asked.

"In Margaret's tent, maybe?" Trapper said.

"That's none of your concern, Captain," she spat. "Colonel," she turned on him, "We barely made it here. Major Burns was nearly shot!"

"You missed!" Pierce shouted out the window.

_Crack-ratatatat-crack_

"Everyone make it to cover?" Blake asked.

"Yes, the compound's clear. What about reinforcements?"

"Radar hasn't been able to get through."

Burns turned on the Corporal. "It's your _job_ , soldier, don't just sit around being useless-"

"Can it, Frank," Blake snapped.

"No one's coming?" Houlihan crossed her arms.

"We're-"

"What are we supposed to do, Colonel, we're a hospital-"

"Don't you think I know that?" Blake's tone was sharp enough to silence the Majors.

McIntyre eyed the tense figures. "Anyone see Father Mulcahy? We could use some comfort from on high."

"I think he's trapped in his tent," Nurse Baker said, across the room.

The phone rang and everyone in the room held their breath.

Radar answered the phone so quick he nearly brained himself. "MASH 4077." He listened for a moment, pressing a finger in his other ear, "What was that? We're under fire over here-oh, you know? Oh, you're-oh."

"What, what?" Blake whispered.

Radar's face was grim, "It's Captain Benson, from the 101st. Heavy casualties. Said an ambulance was on its way here, got caught under fire."

"Our sniper?"

Radar spoke into the phone, "How far away did you lose contact?...So it's-oh." Another clap of thunder, the rain surged outside. "Well, we-" He stopped, shoulders sagging. Slowly, he set the phone back in its case.

"What is it?"

"Storm musta knocked out the line."

"We're cut off?" Houlihan asked, incredulously.

"What are we going to do?" Burns' voice rose in pitch.

"We have to go find that ambulance," Pierce stood.

"In this storm? With those Commies taking potshots at anything that breathes?"

"We can't just leave those wounded out there," McIntyre said.

"We'll be no good to them dead!"

"Hold it," Blake rubbed his forehead.

Pierce began to pace. "Sun's nearly down, I say we wait for dark and make a run for it."

"One glimpse of our flashlight and we'd be sitting ducks," Houlihan retorted.

"Then we won't use flashlights."

"We should wait for reinforcements, it's the responsible course of action."

"Responsible, hell, those men need medical attention now, they can't afford to wait for reinforcements we don't even know are coming."

"How dare they fire on a hospital, can't they see the cross? It's against the Geneva Convention!"

"Maybe they looked at it sideways and thought it meant 'x marks the spot.'"

"This isn't very damn funny, McIntyre-"

"You're right, Frank, it's not-neither is leaving soldiers to die."

"I'm not leaving anyone to die, I'm merely-"

As their voices raised, Blake turned to Radar. "Corporal, get me a sheet."

"A sheet, sir-"

"You heard me, get me a white sheet. _Now_."

Radar dropped the telephone he'd been fiddling with and was back a moment later.

Blake snatched the cloth from his hand and walked resolutely toward the door.

"Sir, uh, sir," Radar followed.

Vess had been sitting quietly in the corner, watching the exchange with interest. They noticed Radar and Blake leave, though no one else seemed to. After a moment, Vess followed.

Blake paused outside the door, his legs suddenly unwilling to go farther.

"You know what I'm thinking, Radar?"

"Uh, I believe so, sir."

"You wouldn't happen to be interested in doing it, would you?"

"Uh-" Radar swallowed. "Well, Colonel, I always, uh, preferred to keep the blood on the inside-but if you want me to-"

Blake shook his head. "No, Radar, you stay here, and that's an order. I'll just, uh, I'll just-uhm-any moment now, I'll just push open that door and, uh-"

"Want me to go?" Vess asked.

Both men jumped.

"Vess, I didn't hear you-no, no, I couldn't have you do that. Could-No, I couldn't."

"White flag's universal, right?" They stepped forward with a hand extended. "So long as whoever that is out there is honest, I should be right as rain."

_Crack-crack-BOOM_

Vess laughed nervously. "Pardon the-never mind."

"No, that won't do." Henry adjusted his cap. "Keep the home fire burning."

Without another word, he stepped outside.

Pierce and McIntyre arrived in time to see the door swing shut. "Was that-"

Radar clung to the desk with a white-knuckled hand. "He went-he went out there-to-"

The two Captains exchanged a quick glance.

"Should we?"

"Not much of a choice."

To Vess, "Up for a run in the rain?"

They gave a short nod. As Pierce and McIntyre slipped out the other door, Vess paused by Radar's side and pressed their notepad into his hand.

"Don't lose this," they said, then were gone.

The run down the road had been a messy scramble, every clap of thunder or distant _crack_ sending them diving to the ground. By the time they reached the ambulance, sitting on a seemingly deserted stretch of road, all three were caked in mud and dotted with scrapes and bruises.

As they approached one of the drivers rose from a crouch, pointing his sidearm.

"Don't shoot!" Pierce called, "We're friends. From the 4077."

The man nearly dropped his gun in surprise. "Heard shots, assumed you were stuck."

"We were. We are," McIntyre said, diving behind a tire as a shot hit the mud where he'd been standing a moment before, "But we got temporarily unstuck. What's the situation?"

"Two wounded in the back. One of 'em needs blood bad."

Pierce reached to open the back door, then recoiled as a bullet _ping_ ed off the metal. "Damn!"

Vess fell to their knees by the driver, out of breath. "I'm Vess, that's Doctors McIntyre and Pierce."

"Private Duncan. How the hell did you get here?"

"Our CO was kind enough to provide a distraction."

"You sure are some crazy sons of bitches."

"Thank you," McIntyre said, darting to help Pierce open the door and scramble inside.

"You a doctor?"

"No, even better: a correspondent. But don't spread that around." Vess called back to the doctors, "Can I help?"

"Got any spare plasma on you?"

"Must have left it in my other pants."

"Come back here, both of you."

Duncan and Vess clambered through the open door, quickly giving up apologizing for bumping into each other as the confined ambulance made it impossible not to.

Pierce looked grim. "We can move one of these kids on foot, but the other…"

"Tires are stuck too deep in the mud, can't get out-that's how we got pinned down."

"Damn. We've got to move fast." He turned to McIntyre. "Go back to camp and start this kid, send somebody back for me."

"Pierce-"

"Come on, Trap, don't argue with me. Duncan, grab this kid-you and McIntyre and gonna run him back to camp. Vess, help them."

"I'll stay here. Somebody's got to watch your six."

Pierce deliberated for a split second, realized he didn't have the will for a fight. "Fine."

Duncan tried to hand him the gun, "Here-"

"Sorry, Private, I can't accept tips."

"But, sir-"

"It clashes with my scrubs, now, _go_ , all of you."

"I'll see you back at camp," McIntyre said.

Weighed down by the semi-conscious man in the middle, they shuffled at a painfully slow speed.

"They'll get picked off at that pace," Vess said. They reached for the emergency kit under one of the cots and cracked it open. "Aha. Work on him, I'll draw fire."

Before Pierce could speak, Vess lit a flare from the kit and hurled it with all their might into the nearby field. Immediately, a flurry of _crack-crack_ s followed its path. Vess slammed the door behind them and disappeared into the night-a few yards down the road, another burst of flame earned a few shots.

Pierce turned back to his patient, grimacing at the sucking chest wound. So consumed by stabilizing the kid, the minutes slipped away and he was suddenly startled by a rapping on the side of the ambulance.

He pulled the door open. "That was pretty damn foolish."

Out of breath and soaked to the bone, Vess clambered inside. "We've established how you feel about my methods, but you can't dispute that I get results."

The two sat in silence for a moment.

Vess looked down. "How's he doing?"

"He's in bad shape," Pierce said, unable to muster up the energy for a euphemistic substitute and instead settling for the truth. "We need to get him back to camp."

"They're coming." The words sounded hollow in the cramped surroundings. They cleared their throat. "I bet the Colonel'll give us an earful when we get back." After a pause, "He's alright," Vess seemed to be telling themself more than Pierce. "Yeah, he's alright."

"Henry's fine. Here, apply pressure to this." Vess moved their hand to where he gestured.

They slipped into silence again.

A bullet _ping_ ed off the outside of the ambulance, though it had an almost half-hearted enthusiasm about it.

Every few minutes, another shot would _ping_ and Vess would flinch at the vibration through the metal. After a while, they stopped flinching.

Pierce took a breath:

_"Here we go round the prickly pear_

_Prickly pear prickly pear_

_Here we go round the prickly pear_

_At five o'clock in the morning."_

Vess stared numbly. "Not with a bang…" They trailed off.

The young man between them let out a weak groan. Pierce laid a hand on his shoulder.

In the silence, underscored by the rain pattering down on the ambulance's roof, Vess felt their eyes slip close.

"Hear that?"

Vess jerked awake. "Hear what?"

The distant rumble of an engine became audible. But there was something else.

"The gunfire's stopped."

The vehicle skid to a halt. A moment later, someone pounded on the door.

Pierce swung it open and inhaled deeply, "Ah, I've never been so happy to smell motor oil and old leather."

Klinger, his fatigues top worn over a tasteful navy skirt, grinned. "Quite a feat, Captain. And Vess-boy, the Colonel has some things to say to you."

"Everyone's alright?" Vess asked, hopping to the ground and landing with a squelch in the mud.

"A bit shaken up, few of the Privates had some nasty splinters from ricochets." Klinger helped shift the wounded man into the back of the jeep.

Pierce climbed into the back, keeping a hand on the bandage. "Henry?"

"You'll never believe this, sir," Klinger said, starting the engine, "The minute he stepped outside and started waving that flag, the whole hill came down onto the chopper pad. The rain musta loosened up all the soil, nearly buried those two jokers. They never got a shot off at 'im."

Vess, stiff and aching, settled into the passenger's seat. "Can't say that's what I expected."

Pierce snorted. "This is the way the world ends: not with a bang, but with a mudslide."

Vess tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter. After a moment Pierce joined in, both guffawing up into the rainy sky.

"A-mudslide," Pierce gasped, "'Not with a bang but with a _squelch_ -'"

The two dissolved into cackles, heads thrown back.

Klinger turned the jeep around and headed back to camp, frowning, "If you guys are trying for a Section 8, you're gonna need to do better than that."

"We wouldn't want to step on your toes, Klinger," Vess said.

"Yeah, we'd scuff your pumps!" Hawkeye managed to keep a hand on the patient's chest, using the other to slap his knee in mirth.

Klinger rolled his eyes. The empty road echoed with the passengers' laughter, it resonated behind them, floating around the empty ambulance and the spent bullet casings glittering on the ground.

The rain continued well into the next day.


	7. Out of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear readers, I write this column to you from the front, or as close to the front as one can safely-and I use that word loosely-go. 'Safe' is an odd concept around here..."

_Dear readers, I write this column to you from the front, or as close to the front as one can safely-and I use that word loosely-go._

_'_ _Safe' is an odd concept around here._

_The distant_ pop _of gunfire is constant; a few times a day the earth shakes from artillery strikes, near and far. After a while you become numb to it._

_I suppose this is when that strange feeling of safety sets in-if you can hear the strikes, chances are you're still here to tell about it._

_It is here, within spitting range of the front-an amorphous, bloody concept in itself-that I find myself, at an aid station nestled within a grove of trees, which provide some small shelter from the beating sun._

_The medics of the 4077 took on a risky mission of mercy, providing relief to the cramped and understaffed station._

_Days before, a sniper hit the station's chief surgeon. There are conventions protecting doctors and their patients; in the heat of war, these customs, at times, fall by the wayside._

_The small expedition arrived at the station and were met by agony and a seemingly unending river of blood._

"Corpsman, over here," McIntyre called. "Baker, prep this patient."

Corporal Kye took the other end of the stretcher and helped the surgeon transfer the groaning soldier to the table. Nurse Baker followed, examining the wound to the patient's shoulder.

"Doctor!" A medic called, "Got a bleeder over here."

"Baker, can you handle that shoulder?"

"Yes, doctor."

McIntyre met the medic in the doorway, grabbing the soldier's other arm and helping him onto the vacant table. "Got a whole scrapyard in his chest. I need plasma over here!"

"Trap," Vess shouted, from outside the tent's flapping walls. "We've got-"

A deafening _boom_ cut off the words. Debris fell from the ceiling, medics rushing to cover open wounds. It took a long moment for the reverberations of the explosions to fade from the air. The dust settled.

"Everyone alright?"

A chorus of coughs and groans came in reply.

Vess stumbled inside, dazed, a limping soldier clinging to their side. "-incoming," they finished, gasping, "We've got incoming. This kid took one in the leg."

"I"ll get to him in a minute, I'm elbow deep in this kid's chest."

"What should I do? He's bleeding-"

"They're all bleeding," Trapper snapped. At the sight of Vess' face, he struggled to even his tone, "Put a bandage on it for now, Kye, show him how."

Kye picked his way around the patients lying prone on the floor, the dirt serving as a makeshift post-op area, and crouched at Vess' side.

"Here," he wrapped the soldier's leg.

By the time he finished, Vess' head had cleared. They nodded their thanks.

"Am I gonna be okay?" The patient's voice trembled, locks of sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead. He couldn't be a day over 18. "My leg, is it-"

Vess helped him hobble to a blanket in the corner. "You'll be alright, you've got one of the best working on you."

"'One of'?" McIntyre called.

"Can't boost your ego too much," Vess paused by the tent's opening, "You might demand a pay raise, and we can't have that."

They ducked outside as a shell landed a few yards away, sending a plume of dirt into the sky.

The sun sat high in the sky, beating down on the staff taking advantage of the quiet day and baking heat.

Some of the nurses spread towels in front of their tents, basking in the sunshine with a steady supply of pebbles at hand to dissuade oglers. A pick-up game of football broke out and seemed to follow Father Mulcahy as he picked a shady spot to read his book of psalms only to find the ball flying in his direction, forcing him to relocate once again.

Pierce sat in a tattered folding chair and sipped a martini as he watched Colonel Blake practice his backswing.

"Radar, hand me that putter, will you?" Blake's hand hovered in the empty air behind his back, awaiting the desired club.

Radar, a few feet away, stared vacantly into space.

Hawkeye pinched his nose, giving his voice a shrill, nasally tone, "Earth to Radar, calling Radar."

"Huh-what?" O'Reilly snapped to attention.

"My putter," Blake repeated.

The Corporal retrieved it with a sheepish look, "Sorry, sir."

"Your head's been in the clouds all day," Blake lined up the shot, closing one eye, "Something on your mind?"

"Could be any number of things, there's a lot of empty space up there."

Radar scowled at Pierce. "It's nothing. Just thinking, is all."

"Care to share?"

He hesitated. "Is that an order?"

Henry snorted, "No. Not that it matters-when have you ever listened to an order I gave?"

"I have," Radar protested. "I'm only-it's nothing."

Pierce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Worried about Trapper?"

"No!" He said it far too quickly to be convincing.

"He's got enough sense to stay out of trouble, Kye, too-the one you should really be worried about is Vess. Knowing him, he'll run into battle thinking the pen is mightier than the machine gun."

Blake swung, sending the ball flying into the field with a satisfying _thwack_. "Have you heard anything?"

Radar shuffled his feet. "No."

"Well, then that's all there is to it. They would've called if they ran into trouble."

"Henry's right, my first instinct when I've been shot is to reach for the nearest phone."

Blake sent him a dirty look. "Stop worrying, Radar. Nothing you can do from here."

"Hear that, Radar, stop worrying," Pierce settled back in his chair, closing his eyes, "and that's an order."

_Thwack_ -The next ball sent Pierce's glass flying.

Across the field, Majors Houlihan and Burns spread a blanket beneath a tree for a picnic.

"Oh, Frank, such a beautiful day," Houlihan said with a happy sigh, "Isn't it terribly romantic?"

"Hm."

"Couldn't you just stay here forever?"

"Yes, yes."

Margaret sat up. "Frank, what is it?"

"Nothing."

"Something's on your mind, you've been quiet for hours. And you haven't said anything about my hair."

"Hm, oh, yes," he said, without looking, "What a lovely bun."

Houlihan, whose hair was down in waves around her shoulders, crossed her arms. "Frank, what's on your mind?" She raised her chin, glaring, "Is it another woman?"

"No, it's-it's just-what do you think about that _Vess_?"

"Vess? Frank, you're not-"

"What-no!" Burns gave an exaggerated shiver of revulsion. "I just want to know-what you think of hi-her-him."

"Oh, I don't know," she sat back with a huff. "He's alright, I suppose. Certainly causes a fair amount of trouble, I think he's already been corrupted by Pierce and McIntyre...but he can follow instructions during surgery. Some of the nurses have suggested I train him, which I, of course, said was ridiculous-he's just a correspondent, after all, and barely that. Why?"

"What's his angle?"

"His-" Houlihan was taken aback. "Frank, what are you talking about?"

"I think he's got it out for me."

"For you? But why?"

"Well I _did_ take Flagg's side against him, and said-what I said. And besides, there was the-" Burns fidgeted, glancing around to make sure no one was around, "-the incident in the supply room, and-well, I'm sure he's just got something against me."

Houlihan narrowed her eyes. "What incident in the supply room?"

"Oh, nothing, I-"

" _Frank_."

"Well," he licked his lips nervously, "I was doing inventory, and he came in behind me- _snuck_ up behind me- and I, well, I thought he was trying to get _fresh_ or something, and-"

"Who, Frank?"

"It wasn't-"

" _'_ _He_ ,' _who_ , _Frank_?"

"Vess! And, well, I just-"

"You just what?"

"I guess I must have- _pushed_ -"

"Pushed!"

"Gently! I gently may have slightly _shoved-_ "

"Frank!" Margaret gasped, " _You_ did that? He said he tripped!"

"It was self-defense!"

"Self-defense!" Houlihan's voice rose.

"Please, Margaret, don't be so shrill! Someone might hear."

"Shrill, hell!" She snatched the end of the blanket and pulled it over Burns' head, stalking away as he struggled to free himself.

_At the station, minutes and hours pass in furtive spurts._

_One moment you strain to hold a teenage boy together with your bare hands; the next, you look down to find the table empty. For a time, the bodies don't come._

_This brief, fleeting respite is used to catch your breath and take stock of supplies. You try and fail to wash the lingering feeling of blood off your hands._

_You take your helmet off, try to wring the sweat out of your hair._

_Then the moment passes: the whistling of falling shells returns, and the bodies once again begin to arrive._

McIntyre paused to wipe his brow, stepping back. "Get this kid out of here, I'm ready for the next one."

"We've got a minute to breathe," a medic called.

The corpsman approached, panting. His face was grim.

"Don't look so low, Kye, we're only under fire and up to our elbows in casualties."

"We're out of whole blood, plasma, nearly everything."

The words filled McIntyre with dread. "There's no more?"

"At camp, sure," Kye shook his head, "But we'd never make it there and back in time for the next wave."

McIntyre swore. "You and Baker start rounding up donors." To the medic, he called "Jones, anybody nearby who can help us with supplies?"

Jones weighed the question. "Next station is a few miles east, but I don't know how hard they've been hit. They might not have anything to spare."

"Get 'em on the phone and ask nicely," Trapper said.

The medic nodded.

Trapper took a step outside for the first time in hours, glancing up at the afternoon sun.

He spotted Vess kneeling next to a soldier with a blood-stained bandage around his head. They were saying something Trapper recognized from one of their frequently-told stories, about a sailor with a squid in his boot. The wounded man's laugh dissolved into a fit of hacking.

The correspondent started to flinch back but caught themself, laying a hand on the kid's shoulder until his breathing evened.

McIntyre watched the scene solemnly, his lips set in a flat line.

Vess felt his gaze and looked up. Trapper waved them over.

"Seems like they've decided to stop sending us bodies for the moment. What's the situation, Doc?"

"Not good. Soon we'll be taking blood from anybody who can spare it, including you and me." They nodded, and Trapper continued, "We're calling around for help. Hopefully they'll reach us in time, if not…"

Vess' jaw clenched. "Some of these men-these kids-"

"I know."

"Doctor-" Jones emerged from the tent, "I've got the next station on the line, they said they can spare some supplies but can't spare anyone for long. Someone would have to meet them halfway."

"Tell 'em we'll do it."

The distant _pop-pop_ at the front intensified. Vess glanced in the direction of the noise, "Whoever heads out there'll be walking with a target on their back."

McIntyre mulled it over. The medics at the station needed him there, they'd be overwhelmed if another wave came in while he was gone. Though he had the authority, he couldn't in good conscience order Kye or Baker to go. There's nothing to it, he'd have to-

"I'll go."

Trapper must have gotten whiplash from the speed at which he turned his head. "What?"

"You can't go, they need your hands." It was as if Vess had read his thoughts, "Same with the others. I'm dispensable."

"You're not going, you're a civilian."

"Exactly, I have a lot less to lose." McIntyre turned away, shaking his head in disbelief. Vess pressed, "Listen, Blake has stuck his neck out for me-more times than I know. The least I can do is bring his staff back alive."

"You can't go." Trap stood firm, "You're not going, that's an order."

Vess picked their helmet off the ground, removing their notepad and pen in order to place it on their head. "Good thing I don't take orders from you."

They returned to the tent, leaving the gape-mouthed doctor in their wake. He stood frozen for a moment, eventually managing to spur his legs into motion. As he entered the makeshift OR, he heard Vess asking Jones,

"Where's the rendezvous?"

"It's a spot about ten miles down the road. Are you-?" The medic looked incredulously between Vess and McIntyre. When the latter failed to say anything, Jones continued, "Just go straight, they'll be looking for you."

The correspondent turned to McIntyre, shoulders stiff, expecting a fight.

Instead, he said, "Take the jeep."

Vess half-smiled. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Don't go playing hero." Trapper shook his head again.

"Colonel, I have a complaint."

Blake didn't look over, focusing on the flag planted a 100 yards into the field. "Houlihan, if you had a positive suggestion to improve camp life, would you bring it to me?"

"Why, yes, sir, but-"

"Then why do you only ever bring me complaints?" The Colonel lowered his club. "Pierce has been here the whole time."

"It's not Pierce, sir-"

"McIntyre? He hasn't been in camp all day."

"No, it's not about him, either-it's Frank."

"What?"

"I mean-it's about Major Burns, sir. I need to report an offense he's committed."

"Did he forget to compliment your hair again, Major? Because I for one think it's lovely."

"Pierce," Blake warned. "Now what's this offense you're talking about?"

"That head injury Vess sustained last week, Colonel."

"Mm-huh," Blake lined up a shot.

"It was Major Burns, sir." Houlihan looked pained as she said it, "He inflicted it."

The words were delivered as Blake swung. The club flew off course and he staggered.

"Frank Burns, in the supply room, with a can of sardines-that was my guess!" Pierce called, from his deck chair, "If only I'd put money on it."

"Now, Margaret," Blake planted the head of his club in the dirt, "I don't know what Frank did to tee you off-"

"Hah, good one!" Radar snickered.

"-but that's a serious accusation to throw around. Vess said he tripped."

"Burns just confessed it to me, he'll admit it to you, too-"

"Is he aware of that?" Pierce asked.

"Houlihan, it's not that I don't believe you, but Frank's an officer. He wouldn't just go around socking people. Sure, he's a few screws short of a lightbulb, but he's not violent."

"It's not in his nature," Hawkeye added, "I've never known a violent coward."

Houlihan crossed her arms. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, I'm just saying maybe you're a bit upset at Burns. Look, I can't act on anything until I get his side, and Vess', too-when he gets back, we'll all talk it out, alright?"

Houlihan gave a sharp nod and turned away.

"Boy," Blake chortled, "I bet Vess' nose is burning, all this talk about him behind his back."

The first thing they knew was the ache. Each breath was a process of ripping and tearing. Not necessarily painful-the sensation was more than anything alien.

They tried to lift their arm and the movement of the muscles prompted a shallow, wheezing breath. Like someone had stuck a straw in through their chest and out the back.

"He-l-l-" Their voice sounded miles away, heard through a tunnel.

_Think_ , they thought, _Think this through._

_The jeep. The rendezvous. A-crash?_

They were on their stomach, dirt and rocks pressing into their cheek.

_Move_ , they suggested to their left arm. It ignored them. _Move!_ , they tried more insistently, to no avail.

_The supplies. Where were the supplies?_

Where are supplies usually? Their thoughts circled back around: _The jeep. Have to get to the jeep._

Their eyes opened.

Dirt, what a surprise. Beyond it, grass. In between the dirt and the grass was a shadow, cast on the ground by something that looked remarkably wheel-like.

With some effort, they shifted their eyes upwards. The jeep sat next to them, engine off. It looked intact, as intact as the jeeps in a war zone ever looked.

_Not a crash._

Another breath, another slurp through the straw in their chest.

"Hell," they repeated, the voice sounding closer this time.

After another polite request, their left arm obliged and pressed itself palm-down against the ground. Their right arm took significantly more prompting but, eventually, did the same.

_And up_. Nothing happened. _I said 'up_.'

Shoulders working in aggravated tandem, they managed to rise a little over an inch above the ground.

Then the pain-the shooting, honest-to-golly pain-began.

"He's been gone too long."

Kye looked up at the words. "I haven't heard any shots. Maybe the others were late, they're still doing the trade."

"No, that's not it." McIntyre stared at the tent's entrance, as if willing the correspondent to appear.

They'd gotten some blood, barely enough, and managed to stabilize the most serious patients. The action at the front seemed to have, miraculously, died down. The influx of wounded slowed to a trickle.

The medics were taking a much-needed rest, sitting where space was available. Nurse Baker leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed.

Minutes passed, no jeep appeared.

"Someone should go after him."

"Who?"

Trapper ran a hand through his hair. "I'm the superior officer, his safety is my responsibility. It's my fault if something's happened."

"You didn't order him to go, sir," Kye pointed out.

The field telephone rang. Jones answered.

He listened, then replied in a low voice, nodded, and signed off, "Right." Looking up at McIntyre, "He made the rendezvous. The boys from the aid station handed off the supplies."

"So he should be back by now?"

Jones swallowed, then nodded.

McIntyre stood. "Baker, you're in charge. Jones, call the 4077 and have a bus sent our way. Things have quieted down enough they'll be able to get here. We've got to get some of these kids onto sturdier tables, sooner rather than later." He surveyed the room. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The spasms had subsided, for the most part.

Next came the difficult task of gaining elevation-making it into the jeep. It was a long crawl, hand-over-hand, until they reached the side of the vehicle.

Gulping air as deeply as they dared, they raised shaking fingers to clutch the bottom of the open door. The heat of the metal, which had spent minutes or hours-they couldn't be sure-sitting in direct sunlight, prompted a sharp recoil and another fit of gasping.

Eventually the sting faded and they reached again, this time aiming for the rubber floor mat. They caught, held fast, and heaved.

The world suddenly seemed to be underwater, sound and sight dimmed, a dark black tube cutting out light from the corners of their vision.

For a moment, everything paused.

Back at the 4077, Radar O'Reilly, standing behind Colonel Blake as the Colonel raised the 9-iron behind his head, froze. He felt a sharp tug in his chest, and his hand drifted to his right breast pocket.

Pierce happened to glance over and see the clerk adopt a strange, disquieted expression. As he watched, Radar wheeled without a word and took off at a run toward camp.

_Supplies_ -the word floated in their consciousness, trying to find something to which to connect.

_Supplies. Jeep. Blood. Aid station. Gunshot._

_Supplies in the jeep...blood...for the aid station…_

_On the way...then...gunshot._

It was starting to come back, gradually.

They at first fought the voice urging rational thought, preferring to remain in the darkness where the pain was merely a soft suggestion.

_Supplies. Blood. They need...the...blood._

Their eyes opened.

_They need the blood_.

One hand curled limply in the dirt, the other still grasped, clawlike, in the floor mat.

With an effort, they prompted the idle hand into action.

"Ah-huugh."

Two hands, acting almost of their own volition, hooked on the lip of the jeep. A slow, deliberate tug brought their shoulders level with the car's floor.

_Need...supplies_.

They had to move. The station needed these supplies. Lives depended on it.

Suddenly everything was very clear, from the ripping pain to the severity of the situation. Blindly reaching, their left hand connected with leather.

The jeep's engine groaned, soundly oddly distant. Their ears were acting up again. They continued the slow journey upwards.

A quiet voice in the back of their head began to inform them that the jeep's engine wasn't running, they must be mistaken. That couldn't be an engine they heard.

"Have to-sup-plies-"

McIntyre saw the jeep first, sitting just on the other side of a hill. At first glance, it was empty.

A second glance took in the body sprawled halfway inside. It was hard to miss the blood.

The jeep had barely stopped moving before he leapt out, quickly scanning the surrounding area for snipers as he crossed the space between the jeeps.

"You'd better be alright," he muttered, "They'll never forgive me-I'll never forgive me-"

"-plies," the figure said.

McIntyre managed to feel a bit of relief as he dropped to one knee. "Vess, it's me."

"Sup-plies," they tried again, a trickle of blood staining their chin. "Have-to-"

"What happened?" Trapper asked, scanning for entry wounds. A light touch to Vess' back produced a spasm of pain.

"Ga-ah," Vess wheezed.

"I'm going to turn you over, alright?" He did, and his jaw clenched. They'd taken a shot to the chest, two inches below the collarbone. By the looks of it, the bullet had come clean through, likely puncturing the lung.

Vess drew a wheezing breath, and Trapper nodded to himself: definitely puncturing the lung.

"Can you hear me, Vess?"

"-plies," they gasped.

"You're gonna be just fine."

"The-blood-back-jeep-"

"You're in shock, Vess, just try and breathe."

Despite their pallor from loss of blood, Vess managed to contort their face into a scowl.

"Not an-idiot," they gasped, "Look-back of-jeep. Check supplies."

It was all McIntyre could do not to roll his eyes. He lifted their hand and placed it atop the wound. "Press here, hard as you can."

Quickly, he glanced over the crate in the backseat. Plasma, whole blood, bandages-not much, but anything was better than the nothing they had.

Returning to Vess' side, he said, "You hit the motherlode."

"All-fine?"

"Yeah, it's all there. And it looks like you, my friend, are going to be its lucky first patient. Enjoy that new blood smell."

Vess let out a short laugh, trailing into a gasp of pain.

"We've got to get you on the table." McIntyre put a hand under their elbow. "This'll hurt."

A quick nod.

He lifted. Vess bit back a cry, what little color left in their face drained away. They gripped McIntyre's forearm with iron fingers. He paused, letting them catch their breath, then heaved and pushed them onto the passenger's seat.

In a pained daze, their mind drifted. When they regained their senses, the jeep was driving back toward the aid station. A sharp turn prompted a groan.

"Lucky-my stomach's empty." Vess felt their gut turn.

"Don't go hurling on me," McIntyre said, glancing over. "Can't stand vomit."

"Tell-tell Colonel-"

He cut them off, "I don't want to hear it."

"But I-"

"You'll be fine, kid, remember-you've got one of the best operating on you." He looked over to see they'd gone limp.

A tent. Bandages. A bus. Lifted. The heavy weight of eyes.

Minutes fading away.

Commotion woke them as they were being lifted from the bus.

This was the part of triage the surgeons dreaded-seeing a familiar face.

Their eyes opened to see Pierce leaning over them.

"You really tried to outdo yourself," he said, "Last time the shoulder, this time the chest. Should be more careful."

They tried to speak but couldn't seem to make their lips move.

He spoke to a corpsman, "Move him inside, first in line for the table." Looking back to Vess, he added, "Welcome home."

They blinked blearily in reply.

A voice spoke from behind Pierce, "Is that Vess? Is he okay?" Radar pushed forward, hovering by Pierce's side.

"He'll be okay, Radar. Give 'im some space, will you?"

Vess had a sudden idea. "Radar," they gasped. It took every ounce of will they had to pull something from their pocket. "Been writing-column." They pressed it into Radar's hand. "Mail it-please."

The clerk stared after as they were carried through the swinging doors, his eyes flicking down to the notepad, now-blood-stained, in his hand.

_The staff of the 4077, and each and every aid station, hospital, and MASH unit in Korea cares deeply about the work they do. They put as much heart into caring for their patients as it's possible to do-sometimes more._

_Their own blood, sweat, and tears stain the battlefield on which they work: the operating tables, the cots, the stretchers._

_This kind of work can quickly age a man, turn him bitter and cold._

_The surgeons of the 4077 may be cynical, at times even callous and harsh with their words. But each and every one would give their life for their patient, no matter for which side he may fight._

_Ally or enemy, we all bleed the same when on the table._

As their eyes flickered open, Vess had the distinct impression their mouth was full of cotton.

They let out a quiet groan, which alerted the young man sitting nearby.

"Trap!" he shouted. To Vess, he said, "Hey, you're awake."

"Am I?" They coughed, clutching their chest at the flash of pain. "How can you be sure?"

"Good of you to join us." McIntyre approached the bed, glancing at Vess' chart before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "We were about to start auctioning off your belongings."

"That's not funny!" Radar was indignant.

"I doubt you'd get much of anything for that flea-ridden junk," Vess' lips twisted. "How long have I been here?"

"A few days. You had quite a time of it."

"First good night's sleep I've had in years."

"Call it one of the perks of heavy sedation." Trapper felt Vess' bandaged chest, earning a wince. "No inflammation. Congratulations, you seem to be handling chest trauma quite well."

"I know it's a dumb question, but-am I gonna-"

The doctor smiled. "You'll pull through."

"Oh!" Radar said, as if suddenly reminded of something. He extracted a small paper from his right breast pocket, putting it in Vess' hand. "Here."

They lifted their hand, face breaking into a grin as they saw the familiar face. "Aw, Jack. Thanks for holding onto him for me, Radar."

McIntyre peered over. "That's a handsome pup."

"A gift from a friend," Vess said.

"Hang on-" In an instant, Radar was gone.

When he was out of sight, Vess let their head fall back on the pillows, face screwing up in agony.

"Hurt?"

Vess cracked open an eye. "Only incredibly so."

"I heard Radar saved our butts," the surgeon said. "He dispatched a bus to the aid station, it got there a few minutes after I left. It was waiting there when I brought you back. Had it not been...well, a long wait for an open table isn't recommended for a punctured lung."

Vess met his eyes but couldn't think of anything to say.

"You also got this letter," Radar returned, brandishing it. "I sent your column out like you asked. I think it might have to do with that."

"'You think,'" Trapper echoed, "You mean you haven't read it already?"

Radar adopted an innocent expression. "I don't know what you mean."

"That was fast," Vess said, narrowing their eyes. They struggled to open the envelope, and Radar took it from their hands to rip it open. "Thanks-hold it, this is my column."

"Don't they send you a copy after printing?"

"No, I mean this is _my_ column, my handwritten notes. Wait, there's a letter."

Atop the page was stamped in bright red letters: UNSENT.

Vess read the letter, then read it again. Their hand slumped down to their chest, the letter held in a loose grip. "I don't believe it."

"Read it, Radar."

Radar delicately extracted the paper from their grip, and read:

"'To E. Vess, Correspondent, MASH 4077-

"'This-'" He stopped, looked at Vess.

"Go on," McIntyre said.

Radar cleared his throat,

"'This column was rejected by the Division of Newspaper Relations as containing content unfit for publication in a stateside paper. The censor regrets to inform you that, as such, the letter was marked unsent and returned to the sender.'-"

"What?" McIntyre couldn't believe his ears.

"Skip to the end." Vess' voice was flat.

"Oh, uh, sir, I'd rather-"

"Read the end, Radar."

"'This-,' uh, 'This will serve as an official warning on the content of your future column submissions. The morale of readers at home will not be helped by such fatalistic language.

"'Signed-', uh, '-Lt. Col. M. Arnold, Head, Division of Newspaper Relations, Seoul HQ.'" He lowered the letter. "They can't do that!"

"The censors can do what they want," Vess said, voice shaking with barely controlled anger, "They can spin any rainy day into a sunny one. Hell, they can make it seem like we're winning the war."

"It'd be almost impressive if it weren't so damn degenerate."

"Let's take it to Colonel Blake, maybe he-"

"What can he do, Radar? This is above his head-it's above all our heads." Vess took the letter, read it once more, handed it back. "They don't want it to get out, and it won't."

A glum McIntyre nodded his agreement.

"But-no! It's not right," Radar was getting animated, "We have to fight it, maybe we can smuggle it out somehow-"

"Radar," Trapper interjected, "Once that stateside paper gets word of the censor's ruling, they won't touch it with a ten-foot pole. Not if they've got any sense at all."

The Corporal vigorously shook his head "They can't do this."

"They've shut down papers for less." Vess sighed, grimaced.

"But-"

"Radar," McIntyre began, but O'Reilly wouldn't hear it.

"I'll take this to the Colonel, he'll know what to do."

In an instant, he was gone.

Vess and McIntyre looked at each other.

"Didn't think a correspondent could have so much fun, huh?"

They scoffed, closing their eyes. "I have all the luck."


	8. Dog Day Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweltering summer hits the 4077, and the Officers' Club is the place to beat the heat.

Summer arrived at the 4077 in full force with a searing heat that settled over the camp.

Few lingered in the blazing sun, crossing the compound at a near-run to reach the safety of shade. Staff shed layer after layer to lounge drowsily in chairs, on cots, under tent overhangs. Corporal Klinger had taken up a spot on an unoccupied table in the vacant OR, shifting from table to table once the metal lost its chill.

An armed MP was posted at the shower tent to prevent the continual running of cold water in repeat washes.

Father Mulcahy had forgone his usual priestly garb for the undershirt and shorts that served as his pajamas. He ducked into the Officers' Club, wiping sweat off his forehead. Every table was taken, occupants opting for tall glasses of water over their usual libations.

The water was far from refreshingly cool, as ice melted quicker than it could be poured.

"Padre, over here." At the table in the corner, furthest from the wave of heat brought in by the opening door, sat Drs. Hawkeye Pierce and Trapper McIntyre, and Vess, resident correspondent.

"Pardon the state of undress," Mulcahy apologized, dropping into a vacant seat. "But it's hotter than-well, you know."

"You're forgiven, Father," said Pierce, himself in a sweat-stained tank top and boxers. "Luckily the heat has vanquished my delicate sensibilities."

"Ah, Vess, glad to see you're feeling better."

"Luckily I ran into a few kind doctors with a spare needle and thread to sew me back together."

McIntyre grinned around his cup. "Mother always said needlepoint was my strongest skill."

"It seems to be a quiet day," the Father remarked, looking around at the idle staff.

"We're revelling in the luxury of boredom," Vess replied.

"I heard we're getting a visitor next week. Some kind of 'efficiency inspector.'" McIntyre waved a hand at the fly attempting to alight on his forehead. "Hopefully not he doesn't have any ties to the Health Department."

"Henry's pretty worked up about it. Apparently HQ's had some harsh things to say over our recent conduct as a unit." Pierce looked pointedly at Vess, who looked pointedly away.

"Anyone got news from the homefront?"

"Last letter from Dad said it was a whopping 65° in CrabApple Cove."

McIntyre whistled. "We should be so lucky."

"My sister-" Father Mulcahy began.

"The Sister?"

"Yes, that's the one-teaching a theology class for the local children, you know. She sent me a letter just the other week saying her students had come up with a clever rhyme. Let me see if I can remember it, hmm," he thought for a moment, "Ah, that's it:

"I once met a cow named Nell,

With knots all tied in her tail,

When I asked her why,

She started to cry,

'I moo-ved when I should've stood still!"

Pierce let out a shout of laughter, startling those sitting nearby.

"Took some liberties with those rhymes," Trapper snorted.

"Well," Mulcahy looked somewhat defensive, "they've only had a few classes."

McIntyre reached across to pat his wrist, "Hey, no offense meant, Padre. She's got some clever kids."

"What about you, Vess?"

Vess flexed their shoulder, which in the past few weeks had proved itself to have a knack for attracting lead. "MacArthur never returns my letters."

"C'mon," Pierce cajoled, "You've got to have a few adoring fans that want to pick your brain about the state of affairs."

"Get me a Pulitzer and I bet they'll come flocking in-until then, it's just letters from that newspaper telling me to watch my spelling and so-called 'crude linguistic choices.'"

"I liked the way you described Major Houlihan tripping and falling into that mud puddle during morning inspection, thought it was very well done," McIntyre took on the air of a pundit, "Though I would've preferred a little more detail about how her uniform-"

"Careful, Trap, there are Fathers present," Pierce warned.

Mulcahy made to give an uncomfortable tug to his collar as if forgetting he wasn't presently wearing one. "Well, ahem, what about you, Trapper? Any word from Louise?"

He received a crooked smile.

"Oh, she's fine, kids are fine. Well, actually, Louise is in a tizzy 'cause Becky snuck a lizard into the teacher's desk. Telling me to I need to get Beck to apologize to the teacher-one misplaced lizard and suddenly it's 'your daughter' instead of 'our.' How's it my fault the teacher's got no sense of humor?"

"Perhaps your daughter should apologize," the chaplain said, thoughtfully placing a thumb on his chin, "After all, wasn't it Peter who told us-"

"Another round?" Kwang, the bartender, made the rounds with a pitcher of water.

"Ah, thank you, barkeep." Pierce held out his glass as Kwang moved to his side of the table, adding under his breath, "Good timing." Quickly, he attempted to change the subject, "What's the news on the peace talks, anybody hear anything?"

One-by-one they shook their heads.

"I'll bet stalled as usual," Trapper replied, nodding his thanks to Kwang. "Father, I'd bet we could use some help from the big guy on this."

Mulcahy worried the crucifix around his neck. "I believe the lines are a bit backed up at the moment...Perhaps we'd like to all pray together?"

"Maybe if we shout, he'll answer it just to shut us up."

"Or file a noise complaint."

"Ah, but I'm sure you wouldn't want to-" The chaplain seemed to deflate.

"Go ahead, Father," Vess prompted, fixing the other two with a look that plainly told them to bow their heads and listen, or else.

They turned attention to the rest of the room and called, "Hey, keep it down, folks, Father's tryin' to pray."

Noise in the club gradually died down.

The priest cleared his throat. "Oh, heavenly Father, hear our prayer: We ask that the men at the table have peace on their minds and patience in their hearts. We ask for Your help in keeping them on the righteous path. May You keep them, and all the boys at the front, and all of us here, safe though we may be in harm's way. In Your name we pray." He crossed himself, head still bowed. "Amen."

All sat silently, absorbing the words. Eventually the clamor returned, though at a notably reduced volume.

Finally McIntyre spoke, "That was nice, Father, real nice."

Pierce blinked a few times, rapidly, as if to clear a speck of dust from his eye. He echoed Trapper, "Yeah, Padre, real nice."

"Does this mean I can expect to see you next Sunday?"

There was a sudden uncomfortable stuttering across the table:

"Well, you see, that's, uh-"

"Gee, I think I gotta to wash my hair that day-"

"I'd, um, I'd have to check my calendar-"

Mulcahy raised his head to reveal a sly smile.

The mood, which had abruptly shifted to discomfort, returned to merriment.

"You cad," Pierce laughed.

The door swung open, ushering in another burst of heat. In one voice, the room hollered, and Major Frank Burns, who'd just entered, blanched and quickly slammed the door.

He stalked over to the table in the corner.

"Pierce-Colonel wants you on the double."

"But this is all so sudden," the doctor clutched his chest, "Can't he give a girl time to think?"

"Move, soldier! You too, McIntyre!"

"Where's the fire, Frank?"

"I'll have you know the efficiency inspector is here, he wants to meet with all our surgeons. Can't imagine why he wants to meet with you two-no accounting for taste.

"The inspector? He's not due 'til next week."

"Apparently he wanted to surprise us, make sure we didn't have time to prepare for his visit. And some of us need more preparation than others."

Pierce's eyes flashed.

"Steady, Hawke," Trap muttered. "'Scuse us, Father, Vess."

They cleared out. Burns remained, hands twisting behind his back.

"Vess, might I...have a word?"

"Shoot."

The man didn't move. "Might I have a word, in private?"

Mulcahy abruptly got the hint. "Oh, I-look at the time," he looked to his wrist, which lacked a watch. "Lots to do. I'll see you later, Vess."

They nodded goodbye. "Something on your mind, Major?"

Burns sat, rigidly, in the seat farthest from them.

"This concerns certain things...events-well, an event-one event, in particular, that involved...the two of-us-"

"Don't keep me in suspense, sir."

"You know very well what I'm-" He attempted a calming breath. "Our...interaction in the supply room."

"When you knocked me into that shelf?"

"Ssh, not so loud," he hissed.

"No one's listening, Major, they're all too deep in their heat-induced comas."

"I just need to know," he leaned closer. "What's your price?"

"I've already told you, was it too much?" He recoiled. "A cup of coffee in the mess tent. Two cups, final offer-take it or leave." They pretended to deliberate, "Oh, alright, you master negotiator you-one cup, no more, no less."

"This is a joke to you."

"Everything's a joke, Major. You may not believe this, but I don't hold anything against you. Don't get me wrong, I did at first, but not anymore."

He didn't look convinced. "But-well, I tried to tell Margaret that, but-" He caught himself, "I mean, Major Houlihan, I tried to tell Major Houlihan that."

"You know, if you're not careful, people might start to think there's something between you two."

"What-I never-no-that's-"

They raised an eyebrow and Burns spluttered to silence.

"Look, if I took the time to care about every terrible thing someone said to me I'd lose every second of the day. You'd do well to take that approach into consideration...if you don't mind me saying so."

"I don't know what you-well, I suppose I do know-"

"Hawk and Trap like to give you a hard time."

He frowned. "How am I supposed to earn respect when my juniors constantly belittle me?"

"Not everyone's out to get you, Major."

"But Pierce and McIntyre make fun of my adherence to the rules, and my appreciation or order, and the fact I can't hold my liquor-Why am I telling you this? You're just a civilian!"

"At the present, I'm technically a journalist, which means I'm about a step or two below a psychologist-you can tell me your problems, but I can't guarantee they won't end up in tomorrow's society pages." Vess gave an amiable smile. "I'm still kidding. They're not soldiers, Burns. For that matter, neither are you. You're all stuck here together, I'm sure that'd be made easier with civility; but if I've learned anything from war it's that it's rarely civil.

"You enjoy this war, don't you?" Quickly, they added, "I don't mean-What I mean is that when I came here I looked for...adventure. For purpose. In a way, in the midst of flying bullets and falling shells, I found it. I sort of think you may feel the same."

"They think I'm sick."

"We're all sick over here. You may have more...enthusiasm than is necessarily in good taste, but we all manage our sickness in different ways."

"Those degenerates manage with an overindulgence in drink."

"Major, you're sitting in a bar. At a hospital close enough to the front you could spit and hit a North Korean tank. For some of us it's either an overindulgence in drink, or dehydration from incessant crying."

He huffed. "Well, they don't have to do it in front of me."

"Why don't you move out?"

"But I'm the senior offic-you're joking again."

Vess, who hadn't entirely been joking, joked, "Now you're getting it. I know we've established I'm just a civilian, so you shouldn't listen to me, but you should really loosen up. Let your skill speak for itself."

Burns sat pensively for a moment. They could see the gears turning in his head, and for a moment was tempted to lean back in case steam began to escape from his ears.

"Obviously you're a civilian and your opinion is therefore immaterial-"

Vess opted to take a sip of their drink rather than respond.

"-but do you think the Colonel likes me?"

Vess all but spat the water across the table. "What?"

"Do you think Colonel Blake likes me?" Burns repeated, voice rising to a whine. "Respects me?"

That was not at all what they'd expected. "I-uh-aren't you his second in command?"

Burns, pouting, nodded.

"Well, there's your answer. If he didn't, he'd've shipped you out. Or appointed you chief latrine officer."

"He couldn't do that," Burns rested his chin on his fist, "It's a rotating office."

"Why are you asking me? Why don't you ask him?"

"Oh," Burns waved a hand dismissively. "I'd hate to bother him."

"Okay," Vess sighed, rising. "My legs have started to liquify. Let's take a walk."

He looked up. "You want to take a walk-with me?"

"Don't worry, I don't think Major Houlihan will mind."

He trailed a little ways behind. "Would you tell her you're not still mad with me? I don't think she'd believe it if I tried."

"Why would I tell her that?"

"But-a joke? Hah!"

As they made to leave, the door opened to reveal an irate Radar.

"Watch where you're going, Corporal!" Burns snapped.

"Blow it out your eye." He stalked to the bar. "Grape Nehi-and make it snappy!"

"Hey, Radar?"

"Yeah, what."

Vess' brow furrowed. "Something bothering you?"

Radar took a long draught of his soda and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "Nothing's bothering me."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"I don't wanna talk about nothing," he retorted.

"That's no way to-"

Vess, halfway out the door, called back to Burns, "C'mon, Major, let's go inspect that inspector."

A few curious glances came from around the room at Radar's back, as he sat hunched at the bar.

After a moment of scrubbing a glass with the least objectionable rag he could find, Kwang attempted, "You okay, kid?"

"Okay? Oh, I'm okay-yeah, I'm okay." A pause. "Well...to be honest I'm mad as heck."

"No kidding."

"But don't go spreading that around!"

"Uh-huh."

Radar took another swig of soda and grimaced. "Gee, is this stuff gettin' stronger or something?"

Kwang smirked. He turned away to wipe the other end of the bar.

"It's just not fair," Radar said, to his back. "People trying to tell people what to say. What not to say. Not letting people know what's really happening."

The bartender moved a few steps away. Radar followed, hopping to a closer barstool.

"I thought they were supposed to tell the truth-the newspapers, I mean. I thought writers were supposed to tell what they saw, and-and-" He shook his head. "Things are bad here, real bad. And the folks back home just don't know-they just don't hear how things really are."

"You expect your army to tell the truth?" Kwang asked, disbelieving. "That would be out of their character."

Radar sullenly sipped his drink, hunched over the counter. "How're they supposed to know? We can't tell 'em in letters, they don't see how it is on the television. My ma doesn't even have one-maybe that's good, she can't see the things they say's going on over here...we don't even know what they say's going on over here."

The barkeep shrugged. "You know what is going on, is that not good enough?"

O'Reilly picked at the label. "I guess it should be."

The door opened again, prompting a collective shout.

"That was a short walk," Kwang noted.

"Long legs." Vess slid onto the stool next to Radar. "Bottle of your vilest, my good sir."

Kwang handed them the beer and they flicked the bottle cap to the counter in front of the clerk. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Colonel says we can't do anything about the censor."

"That's what you're-well, what'd you expect?" As he frowned into his soda, they continued, "Haven't you run into the censor before? This can't be the first time it's caused problems-they use our letters as coffee filters, for god's sake."

Barely above a mutter, Radar said, "Never like this."

"Radar, correspondents face this every day. In every war. As long as there's been American boys overseas, there's been Uncle Sam standing by with an ink blotter at the ready."

"It's not fair."

"That depends on what you believe." Vess took a sip of the beer and winced at the taste. "'Course I'm inclined to agree with you. Once we write it and post it, whole thing's out of our hands. All we can do is keep going. Keep writing what we can and sending it out, and hoping we can find a hole in the sifter for us to squeeze through."

Radar still looked glum.

"C'mon, kid," Vess urged, "Drink another Nehi and forget about your troubles. Our efficiency is being inspected, remember-blue's not a very efficient color."

A few Nehis later, the door swung open again.

"Heey-" the patrons began.

"Can it!" Major Burns snapped. He cleared his throat, "And if you'll follow me this way, Inspector, you'll find the Officers' Club."

A sniveling man -impressively managing to out-snivel Burns- entered, nose in the air. His eyes swept the room, taking in patrons in various states of undress and varied levels of non-officer ranks.

"Not much of an 'officers' club,' Major," he sniveled.

"Uh, yes, sir."

Pierce and McIntyre pushed past, resuming their position at their usual table. "Another round of the hard stuff, Kwang."

"Two waters coming up."

Burns and the newcomer made their way to the bar. "What will you drink, Inspector?"

The man raised his nose. "I never drink on the job."

"Of course, never-I never drink, I mean-well-sometimes I drink, but never-"

Vess stuck out a hand. "Name's Vess, this here's Radar O'Reilly, company clerk. And you are-?"

"Major Douglas Dodgeson, efficiency inspector." He shook their hand with stiff fingers. "What's your rank, soldier?"

"Coooorporal, sir," Radar said, with a hiccup.

"Not you," Dodgeson snapped, "You. You're out of uniform."

Vess looked around the room. "Who isn't?"

"I'll not have that lip."

"Ah-" Burns interjected, "He's known for that, sir-this is Vess, our correspondent."

"'Your' correspondent?" he echoed.

"They built me out of spare limbs and day-old grits out back 'a the OR. Tried to get glue but weren't able to requisition enough in time."

Radar let out a loud giggle, cut off by a hiccup.

"Vess," Frank hissed, sending them a pleading look.

They took another sip of their beer. "You'll have to pardon the attempted wit, Major, we're all a little on edge, given there's a war on. How's the inspection coming?"

"You've no casualties today."

"Here's hoping." Vess knocked on the wooden bar.

"C'min!" Radar called, dissolving into laughter again.

Looking to Kwang, Vess asked, "What's in that soda?"

"With no casualties," Dodgeson said, ignoring the Corporal, "I'm unable to observe your efficiency."

"Well, look at it this way, Inspector: we're so efficient, all our patients up and left on their own."

He chose to ignore the comment. "I will instead observe how this unit uses its idle time. Make sure everything's up to snuff with Army standards."

"What exactly does the Army suggest one does with idle time?" Vess asked. "Polish our boots? Recite the text of their draft card?"

"They will conduct themselves in a way that's becoming of a U.S. Army officer."

"What about those of us who aren't U.S. Army officers? How should we act?"

Across the room, Pierce and McIntyre snorted.

"You'd do well to keep everyone in your camp under control," Dodgeson snapped, "regardless of rank."

"Yes, sir," Burns said, bodily placing himself between Inspector and correspondent. "We try-some are more responsible than others. Might I show you the latrine? We recently dug a new one-" He attempted to lead the other Major away, but the latter shrugged off his hand.

"I think I'll wait in my tent. Escape this-" he looked around the room again and sneered, "degeneracy."

Another wave of searing heat marked their departure.

Vess turned back to their beer. They noticed the clerk which had previously been sitting to their left had gotten off his stool and was shuffling off.

"If I didn't know any better I'd say he's stumbling drunk." They looked at the bartender, eyebrow raised.

"Few drinks in and he doesn't notice the rum. Most Joes can handle it."

"Radar's not most Joes."

The Joe in question had made it to the jukebox in the corner, leaning heavily against it as he drunkenly crooned along to Hank Williams.

"Looked like he could use a drink," Kwang shrugged.

Vess finished the bottle and gestured for another. "Couldn't we all."

"Heeyy!"

"Alright, alright," Colonel Blake grumbled, closing the door to block the heat. "Phew, what a steamer out there. Kwang, get me a cold glass-I don't care what's in it, just make it cold."

"All out of cold today, Colonel."

Blake sighed and found the stool next to Vess. "I'll settle for slightly cooler than the sun."

Vess gave him a sideways look. "That inspector's a cheerful guy."

"He could out-gloom the Grim Reaper," Blake accepted a glass. At the first sip, he recoiled, coughing. "Are you trying to kill-what is this?"

Vess peered at it, giving the liquid inside a tentative sniff. "Top shelf whiskey that took a running leap off and landed in a puddle of basement-quality gin."

"Close enough."

Blake took the glass back and frowned into it, "Tastes like motor oil." He downed the contents. "Keep 'em coming."

"Rough inspection?"

"The man's a menace," Blake groaned. "According to him we do nothing right: beds in the OR are at the wrong angle; tent seams are out of alignment; even complained at the way we label things in the supply room, as if everyone in the unit weren't able to navigate it with our eyes closed! Went over everything with a fine-toothed comb and complained about the dust he stirred up-whole countryside's made of dust! We eat, sleep, and breathe the stuff."

"My beer's certainly full of it," Vess remarked.

A commotion suddenly erupted behind them, as a drink went splashing across a table and an outraged medic leapt to his feet. "Watch it, pipsqueak!"

Kwang looked over Vess' head. "Colonel, I believe that one is yours."

"Aw, Radar, what happened?"

Vess finished their beer, "Can't hold his Nehi." They grabbed his arm and headed for the door, "C'mon, kid, let's get you to bed."

"I'll say-what..I want," he slurred, trying and failing to twist out of Vess' grip, "I'll tell'm 'bout the-'m'bout the bombs. An'...they can't stop me-!"

"Uh-huh," Vess pushed him toward the door.

"What's he talking about?" Blake asked, twisting in his chair.

"It's best not to ask."

The door once again let in a wave of heat.

Pierce took the stool next to Blake as the Colonel finished his second drink and nodded for a third.

"Kwang, that looks and smells repulsive-I'll take one, and give that lovely doll in the corner one, too." He gestured over his shoulder at McIntyre, taking part in a game of darts which had broken out across the bar.

He turned to Blake. "How're we doing on that inspection, Henry?"

"Put it this way, we should've studied."

"That bad, huh?"

Across the room, the bartender delivered a drink. "From your admirer at the bar."

"You're too kind," McIntyre took a sip and grimaced. "Can't imagine what I did to deserve this."

"I mean, who measures tent seams?" Blake moved on to his fourth drink. "'S windy, you know? And the patients!-How can we be expected to keep things straight when we've got a bunch of kids bleeding on our floors?"

"Look at this as a test case, the terrible consequences of giving someone like Frank too much authority."

Blake chortled. "Heh, he is like Frank, I didn't even notice. A spitting image, down to the gold leaves, hoo-hoo."

"And that snotty expression," Pierce added, "How does he see where he's going?"

"Nose so high in the air it could be a landing beacon!" Blake slapped the bar in mirth.

He wobbled a bit as he tried to stand, and Pierce pushed him back down, laughing. "Hold on there, Henry, maybe you should have some peanuts to soak up all that firewater."

"Whew," the Colonel fell back on the stool with a thump. "Maybe you're right. I might mistake his tent for the officers' latrine."

"As fond as he is of our sanitation standards, that might be an improvement."

Blake snorted into his cup. "What does he know, huh?" He was so focused on not spilling his drink or himself onto the floor that he missed the sudden wave of heat behind him. "Comes in here with his clipboards and his rating sheets, saying we don't know how to pitch a tent or label a vial. Well, I oughta tell him something-"

Pierce glanced behind him and sobered slightly. "Henry-"

"-He should try to run a hospital just a hop and a skip from the front. See how long he can keep it all up. I'll bet he-"

"Uh, Henry-"

"Go ahead, Colonel."

Blake's face fell. "I-uh-gee, I'd bet he'd do a, uh, a great job. Isn't that what I was saying, Pierce?"

He turned, leaning back as he did so to rest one elbow on the bar in a movement that served a dual purpose-to appear casual, and keep his upright.

"Colonel, my job is to determine how well you and your unit conduct themselves. The sanitation of your camp is regrettable, the organization outright disgraceful. Your job is to bring our boys back from the brink in these deplorable conditions. And your unit does a damn good job of it."

"If you give me just a moment, I can-" Blake did a double-take. "I, uh-what d'ya say?"

"I certainly disagree with your methods." Dodgeson sneered, "In fact, I'm disgusted by them. Many in your unit are a shame to the United States Army-but I believe they'd take that as a compliment."

Pierce raised his glass, "Here, here."

"As troublesome as I find the conduct of those under your command, I cannot disagree with their results. And though I was unable to observe your surgeons in action today, due to the unfortunate lack of casualties-"

"So unfortunate," Hawke muttered.

"-your record speaks for itself."

Henry beamed. "Well, how 'bout that. You're not nearly as cold and inhumane as I thought!"

Pierce sighed and turned back to the bar, nursing his drink.

"How 'bout a celebratory game?" McIntyre called, offering a handful of darts. "Major? Colonel?"

"How 'bout it, Major?" Blake lurched over to snatch them.

"I'm not much of a player," Dodgeson, sensibly, remained a few feet behind the bumbling drunk.

"Don't worry, hmmMajor," the Colonel reared back to throw. "We'll only put a few bucks on it, nothing to lose."

"Colonel, would you like another-"

"Mmno, Kwang, I think-" At the last moment, Blake turned as he replied to the bartender.

Fwish-thwack!

"Aaugh!"

"Ooh...no."

"Better make that a double, Kwang."

Pierce and McIntyre took hold of the reeling Major and marched him out the door into the heat of the compound, headed for the OR.

"Congratulations, Major," Pierce said to the bleeding, groaning inspector, "You'll get to see us master surgeons in action after all."


End file.
